The Rise of Iskander

Benjamin Disraeli

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Chapter 1

The sun had set behind the mountains, and the rich plain of Athens was suffused with the violet glow
of a Grecian eye. A light breeze rose; the olive-groves awoke from their noonday trance, and rustled with returning
animation, and the pennons of the Turkish squadron, that lay at anchor in the harbour of Piræus, twinkled in the lively
air. From one gate of the city the women came forth in procession to the fountain; from another, a band of sumptuous
horsemen sallied out, and threw their wanton javelins in the invigorating sky, as they galloped over the plain. The
voice of birds, the buzz of beauteous insects, the breath of fragrant flowers, the quivering note of the nightingale,
the pattering call of the grasshopper, and the perfume of the violet, shrinking from the embrace of the twilight
breeze, filled the purple air with music and with odour.

A solitary being stood upon the towering crag of the Acropolis, amid the ruins of the Temple of Minerva, and gazed
upon the inspiring scene. Around him rose the matchless memorials of antique art; immortal columns whose symmetry
baffles modern proportion, serene Caryatides, bearing with greater grace a graceful burthen, carvings of delicate
precision, and friezes breathing with heroic life. Apparently the stranger, though habited as a Moslemin, was not
insensible to the genius of the locality, nor indeed would his form and countenance have misbecome a contemporary of
Pericles and Phidias. In the prime of life and far above the common stature, but with a frame the muscular power of
which was even exceeded by its almost ideal symmetry, white forehead, his straight profile, his oval countenance, and
his curling lip, exhibited the same visage that had inspired the sculptor of the surrounding demigods.

The dress of the stranger, although gorgeous, was, however, certainly not classic. A crimson shawl was wound round
his head and glittered with a trembling aigrette of diamonds. His vest which set tight to his form, was of green
velvet, richly embroidered with gold and pearls. Over this he wore a very light jacket of crimson velvet, equally
embroidered, and lined with sable. He wore also the full white camese common among the Albanians; and while his feet
were protected by sandals, the lower part of his legs was guarded by greaves of embroidered green velvet. From a broad
belt of scarlet leather peeped forth the jewelled hilts of a variety of daggers, and by his side was an enormous
scimitar, in a scabbard of chased silver.

The stranger gazed upon the wide prospect before him with an air of pensive abstraction. “Beautiful Greece,” he
exclaimed, “thou art still my country. A mournful lot is mine, a strange and mournful lot, yet not uncheered by hope. I
am at least a warrior; and this arm, though trained to war against thee, will not well forget, in the quick hour of
battle, the blood that flows within it. Themistocles saved Greece and died a Satrap: I am bred one, let me reverse our
lots, and die at least a patriot.”

At this moment the Evening Hymn to the Virgin arose from a neighbouring convent. The stranger started as the sacred
melody floated towards him, and taking a small golden cross from his heart, he kissed it with devotion, and then
descending the steep of the citadel, entered the city.

He proceeded alone the narrow winding streets of Athens until he at length arrived in front of a marble palace, in
the construction of which the architect had certainly not consulted the surrounding models which Time bad spared to
him, but which, however, it might have offended a classic taste, presented altogether a magnificent appearance.
Half-a-dozen guards, whose shields and helmets somewhat oddly contrasted with the two pieces of cannon, one of which
was ostentatiously placed on each side of the portal, and which had been presented to the Prince of Athens by the
Republic of Venice, lounged before the entrance, and paid their military homage to the stranger as he passed them. He
passed them and entered a large quadrangular garden, surrounded by arcades, supported by a considerable number of thin,
low pillars, of barbarous workmanship, and various-coloured marbles. In the midst of the garden rose a fountain, whence
the bubbling waters flowed in artificial channels through vistas of orange and lemon trees. By the side of the fountain
on a luxurious couch, his eyes fixed upon a richly-illuminated volume, reposed Nicæus, the youthful Prince of
Athens.

“Ah! is it you?” said the Prince, looking up with a smile, as the stranger advanced. “You have arrived just in time
to remind me that we must do something more than read the Persæ, we must act it.”

“My dear Nicæus,” replied the stranger, “I have arrived only to bid you farewell.”

“Farewell!” exclaimed the Prince in a tone of surprise and sorrow; and he rose from the couch. “Why! what is
this?”

“It is too true;” said the stranger, and he led the way down one of the walks. “Events have occurred which entirely
baffle all our plans and prospects, and place me in a position as difficult as it is harrowing. Hunniades has suddenly
crossed the Danube in great force, and carried everything before him. I am ordered to proceed to Albania instantly, and
to repair to the camp at the head of the Epirots.”

“Indeed!” said Nicæus, with a thoughtful air. “My letters did not prepare me for this. ’Tis sudden! Is Amurath
himself in the field?”

“No; Karam Bey commands. I have accounted for my delay to the Sultan by pretended difficulties in our treaty, and
have held out the prospect of a larger tribute.”

“When we are plotting that that tribute should be paid no longer!” added Nicæus, with a smile.

“Alas! my dear friend,” replied the Turkish commander, “my situation has now become critical. Hitherto my services
for the Moslemin have been confined to acting against nations of their own faith. I am now suddenly summoned to combat
against my secret creed, and the best allies of what I must yet call my secret country. The movement, it appears to me,
must be made now or never, and I cannot conceal from myself, that it never could have been prosecuted under less
auspicious circumstances.”

“And Æschylus, certainly,” replied Nicæus; “but I have lived to find even Æschylus insipid. I pant for action.”

“It may be nearer than we can foresee,” replied the stranger. “There is a God who fashions all things. He will not
desert a righteous cause. He knoweth that my thoughts are as pure as my situation is difficult. I have some dim ideas
still brooding in my mind, but we will not discuss them now. I must away, dear Prince. The breeze serves fairly. Have
you ever seen Hunniades?”

“I was educated at the Court of Transylvania,” replied Nicæus, looking down with a somewhat embarrassed air. “He is
a famous knight, Christendom’s chief bulwark.”

The Turkish commander sighed. “When we meet again,” he said, “may we meet with brighter hopes and more buoyant
spirits. At present, I must, indeed, say farewell.”

The Prince turned with a dejected countenance, and pressed his companion to his heart. “’Tis a sad end,” said he,
“to all our happy hours and lofty plans.”

“You are as yet too young to quarrel with Fortune,” replied the stranger, “and for myself, I have not yet settled my
accounts with her. However, for the present farewell, dear Nicæus!”

“Farewell,” replied the Prince of Athens, “farewell, dear Iskander!”

Chapter 2

Iskander was the youngest son of the Prince of Epirus, who, with the other Grecian princes, had, at
the commencement of the reign of Amurath the Second, in vain resisted the progress of the Turkish arms in Europe. The
Prince of Epirus had obtained peace by yielding his four sons as hostages to the Turkish sovereign, who engaged that
they should be educated in all the accomplishments of their rank, and with a due deference to their faith. On the death
of the Prince of Epirus, however, Amurath could not resist the opportunity that then offered itself of adding to his
empire the rich principality he had long coveted. A Turkish force instantly marched into Epirus, and seized upon Croia,
the capital city, and the children of its late ruler were doomed to death. The beauty, talents, and valour of the
youngest son, saved him, however, from the fate of his poisoned brothers. Iskander was educated at Adrianople, in the
Moslemin faith, and as he, at a very early age, exceeded in feats of arms all the Moslemin warriors, he became a prime
favourite of the Sultan, and speedily rose in his service to the highest rank.

At this period the irresistible progress of the Turkish arms was the subject of alarm throughout all
Christendom.

Constantinople, then the capital of the Greek Empire, had already been more than once besieged by the predecessors
of Amurath, and had only been preserved by fortunate accidents and humiliating terms. The despots of Bosnia, Servia,
and Bulgaria, and the Grecian princes of Etolia, Macedon, Epirus, Athens, Phocis, Boeotia, and indeed of all the
regions to the straits of Corinth, were tributaries to Amurath, and the rest of Europe was only preserved from his
grasp by the valour of the Hungarians and the Poles, whom a fortunate alliance had now united under the sovereignty of
Uladislaus, who, incited by the pious eloquence of the cardinal of St. Angelo, the legate of the Pope, and, yielding to
the tears and supplications of the despot of Servia, had, at the time our story opens, quitted Buda, at the head of an
immense army, crossed the Danube, and, joining his valiant viceroy, the famous John Hunniades, vaivode of Transylvania,
defeated the Turks with great slaughter, relieved all Bulgaria, and pushed on to the base of Mount Hæmus, known in
modern times as the celebrated Balkan. Here the Turkish general, Karam Bey, awaited the Christians, and hither to his
assistance was Iskander commanded to repair at the head of a body of Janissaries, who had accompanied him to Greece,
and the tributary Epirots.

Had Iskander been influenced by vulgar ambition, his loftiest desires might have been fully gratified by the career
which Amurath projected for him. The Turkish Sultan destined for the Grecian Prince the hand of one of his daughters,
and the principal command of his armies. He lavished upon him the highest dignities and boundless wealth; and, whether
it arose from a feeling of remorse, or of affection for a warrior whose unexampled valour and unrivalled skill had
already added some of the finest provinces of Asia to his rule, it is certain that Iskander might have exercised over
Amurath a far greater degree of influence than was enjoyed by any other of his courtiers. But the heart of Iskander
responded with no sympathy to these flattering favours. His Turkish education could never eradicate from his memory the
consciousness that he was a Greek; and although he was brought up in the Moslemin faith, he had at an early period of
his career, secretly recurred to the creed of his Christian fathers. He beheld in Amurath the murderer of his dearest
kinsmen, and the oppressor of his country; and although a certain calmness of temper, and coolness of judgment, which
very early developed themselves in his character, prevented him from ever giving any indication of his secret feelings,
Iskander had long meditated on the exalted duty of freeing his country.

Dispatched to Greece, to arrange the tributes and the treaties of the Grecian princes, Iskander became acquainted
with the young Nicæus; and their acquaintance soon matured into friendship. Nicæus was inexperienced; but nature had
not intended him for action. The young Prince of Athens would loll by the side of a fountain, and dream of the wonders
of old days. Surrounded by his eunuchs, his priests, and his courtiers, he envied Leonidas, and would have emulated
Themistocles. He was passionately devoted to the ancient literature of his country, and had the good taste, rare at
that time, to prefer Demosthenes and Lysias to Chrysostom and Gregory, and the choruses of the Grecian theatre to the
hymns of the Greek church. The sustained energy and noble simplicity of the character of Iskander, seemed to recall to
the young prince the classic heroes over whom he was so often musing, while the enthusiasm and fancy of Nicæus, and all
that apparent weakness of will, and those quick vicissitudes of emotion, to which men of a fine susceptibility are
subject, equally engaged the sympathy of the more vigorous and constant and experienced mind of his companion.

To Nicæus, Iskander had, for the first time in his life, confided much of his secret heart; and the young Prince
fired at the inspiring tale. Often they consulted over the fortunes of their country, and, excited by their mutual
invention, at length even dared to hope that they might effect its deliverance, when Iskander was summoned to the army.
It was a mournful parting. Both of them felt that the last few months of their lives had owed many charms to their
companionship. The parting of friends, united by sympathetic tastes, is always painful; and friends, unless this
sympathy subsist, had much better never meet. Iskander stepped into the ship, sorrowful, but serene; Nicæus returned to
his palace moody and fretful; lost his temper with his courtiers, and, when he was alone, even shed tears.

Chapter 3

Three weeks bad elapsed since the parting of Iskander and Nicæus, when the former, at the head of
ten thousand men, entered by a circuitous route the defiles of Mount Hæmus, and approached the Turkish camp, which had
been pitched, upon a vast and elevated table-ground, commanded on all sides by superior heights, which, however, were
fortified and well-garrisoned by Janissaries. The Epirots halted, and immediately prepared to raise their tents, while
their commander, attended by a few of his officers, instantly proceeded to the pavilion of Karam Bey.

The arrival of Iskander diffused great joy among the soldiery; and as he passed through the encampment, the
exclamations of the Turkish warriors announced how ready they were to be led to the charge by a chieftain who had been
ever successful. A guard of honour, by the orders of Karam Bey, advanced to conduct Iskander to his presence; and soon,
entering the pavilion, the Grecian prince exchanged courtesies with the Turkish general. After the formal compliments
had passed, Karam Bey waved his hand, and the pavilion was cleared, with the exception of Mousa, the chief secretary,
and favourite of Karam.

“You have arrived in good time, Iskander, to assist in the destruction of the Christian dogs,” said the Bey.
“Flushed with their accursed success, they have advanced too far. Twice they have endeavoured to penetrate the
mountains; and each time they have been forced to retire, with great loss. The passages are well barricadoed with
timber and huge fragments of rock. The dogs have lost all heart, and are sinking under the joint sufferings of hunger
and cold. Our scouts tell me they exhibit symptoms of retreat. We must rush down from the mountains, and annihilate
them.”

“Is Hunniades here in person?” inquired Iskander.

“He is here,” replied Karam, “in person, the dog of dogs! Come, Iskander, his head would be a fine Ramadan present
to Amurath. ’Tis a head worth three tails, I guess.”

Mousa, the chief secretary, indulged in some suppressed laughter at this joke. Iskander smiled.

“If they retreat we must assuredly attack them,” observed Iskander, musingly. “I have a persuasion that Hunniades
and myself will soon meet.”

“If there be truth in the Prophet!” exclaimed Karam. “I have no doubt of it. Hunniades is reserved for you, Bey. We
shall hold up our heads at court yet, Iskander. You have had letters lately?”

“Some slight words.”

“No mention of us, of course?”

“Nothing, except some passing praise of your valour and discretion.”

“We do our best, we do our best. Will Isa Bey have Ætolia, think you?”

“I have no thoughts. Our royal father will not forget his children, and Isa Bey is a most valiant chieftain.”

“For myself, I feel sanguine,” replied the Prince, and he arose to retire. “I must at present to my men. We must
ascertain more accurately the movements of the Christians before we decide on our own. I am inclined myself to
reconnoitre them. How far may it be?”

“There is not room to form our array between them and the mountains,” replied Karam.

Chapter 4

Iskander returned to his men. Night was coming on. Fires and lights blazed and sparkled in every
direction. The air was clear, but very cold. He entered his tent, and muffling himself up in his pelisse of sables, he
mounted his horse, and declining any attendance, rode for some little distance, until he had escaped from the precincts
of the camp. Then he turned his horse towards one of the wildest passes of the mountain, and galloping at great speed,
never stopped until he had gained a considerable ascent. The track became steep and rugged. The masses of loose stone
rendered his progress slow; but his Anatolian charger still bore him at intervals bravely, and in three hours’ time he
had gained the summit of Mount Hæmus. A brilliant moon flooded the broad plains of Bulgaria with shadowy light. At the
base of the mountainous range, the red watch-fires denoted the situation of the Christian camp.

Iskander proceeded down the descent with an audacious rapidity; but his charger was thorough-bred, and his moments
were golden. Ere midnight, he had reached the outposts of the enemy, and was challenged by a sentinel.

“Who goes there?”

“A friend to Christendom.”

“The word?”

“I have it not — nay calmly. I am alone, but I am not unarmed. I do not know the word. I come from a far country,
and bear important tidings to the great Hunniades; conduct me to that chief.”

“May I be crucified if I will,” responded the sentinel, “before I know who and what you are. Come, keep off, unless
you wish to try the effect of a Polish lance,” continued the sentinel; “’tis something, I assure you, not less awkward
than your Greek fire, if Greek indeed you be.”

“My friend, you are a fool,” said Iskander, “but time is too precious to argue any longer.” So saying, the Turkish
commander dismounted, and taking up the brawny sentinel in his arms with the greatest ease, threw him over his
shoulder, and threatening the astounded soldier with instant death if he struggled, covered him with his pelisse, and
entered the camp.

They approached a watch-fire, around which several soldiers were warming themselves.

“Who goes there?” inquired a second sentinel.

“A friend to Christendom,” answered Iskander.

“The word?”

Iskander hesitated.

“The word, or I’ll let fly,” said the sentinel, elevating his cross bow.

“And why do you mock us by changing your voice?” said another. “Come, get on with you, and no more jokes.”

Iskander proceeded through a street of tents, in some of which were lights, but all of which were silent. At length,
he met the esquire of a Polish knight returning from a convivial meeting, not a little elevated.

“Who are you?” inquired Iskander.

“I am an Esquire,” replied the gentleman.

“A shrewd man, I doubt not, who would make his fortune,” replied Iskander. “You must know great things have
happened. Being on guard I have taken a prisoner, who has deep secrets to divulge to the Lord Hunniades. Thither, to
his pavilion, I am now bearing him. But he is a stout barbarian, and almost too much for me. Assist me in carrying him
to the pavilion of Hunniades, and you shall have all the reward, and half the fame.”

“You are a very civil spoken young gentleman,” said the Esquire. “I think I know your voice. Your name, if I mistake
not, is Leckinski?”

“A relative. We had a common ancestor.”

“I thought so. I know the Leckinskies ever by their voice. I am free to help you on the terms you mention — all the
reward and half the fame. ’Tis a strong barbarian, is it? We cannot cut his throat, or it will not divulge. All the
reward and half the fame! I will be a knight tomorrow. It seems a sort of fish, and has a smell.”

The Esquire seized the Shoulders of the prisoner, who would have spoken had he not been terrified by the threats of
Iskander, who, carrying the legs of the sentinel, allowed the Polish gentleman to lead the way to the pavilion of
Hunniades. Thither they soon arrived; and Iskander, dropping his burthen, and leaving the prisoner without to the
charge of his assistant, entered the pavilion of the General of the Hungarians.

He was stopped in a small outer apartment by an officer, who inquired his purpose, and to whom he repeated his
desire to see the Hungarian leader, without loss of time, on important business. The officer hesitated; but, summoning
several guards, left Iskander in their custody, and, stepping behind a curtain, disappeared. Iskander heard voices, but
could distinguish no words. Soon the officer returned, and, ordering the guards to disarm and search Iskander, directed
the Grecian Prince to follow him. Drawing aside the curtain, Iskander and his attendant entered a low apartment of
considerable size. It was hung with skins. A variety of armour and dresses were piled on couches. A middle-aged man, of
majestic appearance, muffled in a pelisse of furs, with long chestnut hair, and a cap of crimson velvet and ermine, was
walking up and down the apartment, and dictating some instructions to a person who was kneeling on the ground, and
writing by the bright flame of a brazen lamp. The bright flame of the blazing lamp fell full upon the face of the
secretary. Iskander beheld a most beautiful woman.

She looked up as Iskander entered. Her large dark eyes glanced through his soul. Her raven hair descended to her
shoulders in many curls on each side of her face, and was braided with strings of immense pearls. A broad cap of white
fox-skin crowned her whiter forehead. Her features were very small, but sharply moulded, and a delicate tint gave
animation to her clear fair cheek. She looked up as Iskander entered, with an air rather of curiosity than
embarrassment.

“Lord Hunniades,” said Iskander, “that is for your private ear. I am unarmed, and were I otherwise, the first knight
of Christendom can scarcely fear. I am one in birth and rank your equal; if not in fame, at least, I trust, in honour.
My time is all-precious: I can scarcely stay here while my horse breathes. Dismiss your attendant.”

Hunniades darted a glance at his visitor which would have baffled a weaker brain, but Iskander stood the scrutiny
calm and undisturbed. “Go, Stanislaus,” said the Vaivode to the officer. “This lady, sir,” continued the chieftain, “is
my daughter, and one from whom I have no secrets.”

Iskander bowed lowly as the officer disappeared.

“And now,” said Hunniades, “to business. Your purpose?”

“I am a Grecian Prince, and a compulsory ally of the Moslemin. In a word, my purpose here is to arrange a plan by
which we may effect, at the same time, your triumph, and my freedom.”

“To whom, then, have I the honour of speaking?” inquired Hunniades.

“My name, great Hunniades, is perhaps not altogether unknown to you: they call me Iskander.”

“What, the right arm of Amurath, the conqueror of Caramania, the flower of Turkish chivalry? Do I indeed behold that
matchless warrior?” exclaimed Hunniades, and he held forth his hand to his guest, and ungirding his own sword, offered
it to the Prince. “Iduna” continued Hunniades, to his daughter, “you at length behold Iskander.”

“My joy is great, sir,” replied Iduna, “if I indeed rightly understand that we may count the Prince Iskander a
champion of the Cross.”

Iskander took from his heart his golden crucifix, and kissed it before her. “This has been my companion and
consolation for long years, lady,” said Iskander; “you, perhaps, know my mournful history, Hunniades. Hitherto my
pretended sovereign has not required me to bare my scimitar against my Christian brethren. That hour, however, has at
length arrived, and it has decided me to adopt a line of conduct long meditated. Karam Bey who is aware of your
necessities, the moment you commence your retreat, will attack you. I shall command his left wing. In spite of his
superior power and position, draw up in array, and meet him with confidence. I propose, at a convenient moment in the
day, to withdraw my troops, and with the Epirots hasten to my native country, and at once raise the standard of
independence. It is a bold measure, but Success is the child of Audacity. We must assist each other with mutual
diversions. Single-handed it is in vain for me to commence a struggle, which, with all adventitious advantages, will
require the utmost exertion of energy, skill, and patience. But if yourself and the King Uladislaus occupy the armies
of Amurath in Bulgaria, I am not without hope of ultimate success, since I have to inspire me all the most urgent
interests of humanity, and combat, at the same time, for my God, my country, and my lawful crown.”

“Brave Prince, I pledge you my troth,” said Hunniades, coming forward and seizing his hand; “and while Iskander and
Hunniades live, they will never cease until they have achieved their great and holy end.”

“It is a solemn compact,” said Iskander, “more sacred than if registered by all the scribes of Christendom. Lady
Iduna, your prayers!”

“They are ever with the champions of the Cross,” replied the daughter of Hunniades. She rose, the large cloak in
which she was enveloped fell from her exquisite form. “Noble Iskander, this rosary is from the Holy Sepulchre,”
continued Iduna; “wear it for the sake and memory of that blessed Saviour who died for our sins.”

Iskander held forth his arm and touched her delicate hand as he received the rosary, which, pressing to his lips, he
placed round his neck.

“Great Hunniades,” said the Grecian Prince, “I must cross the mountains before dawn. Let me venture to entreat that
we should hear tomorrow that the Christian camp is in retreat.”

“Let it be even so,” said the Hungarian, after some thought, “and may tomorrow’s sun bring brighter days to
Christendom.” And with these words terminated the brief and extraordinary visit of Iskander to the Christian
general.

Chapter 5

The intelligence of the breaking up of the Christian camp, and the retreat of the Christian army,
soon reached the Divan of Karam Bey, who immediately summoned Iskander to consult on the necessary operations. The
chieftains agreed that instant pursuit was indispensable, and soon the savage Hæmus poured forth from its green bosom
swarms of that light cavalry which was perhaps even a more fatal arm of the Turkish power than the famous Janissaries
themselves. They hovered on the rear of the retreating Christians, charged the wavering, captured the unwary. It was
impossible to resist their sudden and impetuous movements, which rendered their escape as secure as their onset was
overwhelming. Wearied at length by the repeated assaults, Hunniades, who, attended by some chosen knights, had himself
repaired to the rear, gave orders for the army to halt and offer battle.

Their pursuers instantly withdrew to a distance, and gradually forming into two divisions, awaited the arrival of
the advancing army of the Turks. The Moslemin came forward in fierce array, and with the sanguine courage inspired by
expected triumph. Very conspicuous was Iskander bounding in his crimson vest upon his ebon steed and waving his
gleaming scimitar.

The Janissaries charged, calling upon Allah! with an awful shout. The Christian knights, invoking the Christian
saints, received the Turks at the points of their lances. But many a noble lance was shivered that morn, and many a
bold rider and worthy steed bit the dust of that field, borne down by the irresistible numbers of their fierce
adversaries. Everywhere the balls and the arrows whistled through the air, and sometimes an isolated shriek heard amid
the general clang, announced another victim to the fell and mysterious agency of the Greek fire.

Hunniades, while he performed all the feats of an approved warrior, watched with anxiety the disposition of the
Turkish troops. Hitherto, from the nature of their position, but a portion of both armies had interfered in the
contest, and as yet Iskander had kept aloof. But now, as the battle each instant raged with more fury, and as it was
evident that ere long the main force of both armies must be brought into collision, Hunniades, with a terrible
suspense, watched whether the Grecian prince were willing or even capable of executing his plan. Without this
fulfilment, the Christian hero could not conceal from himself that the day must be decided against the Cross.

In the meantime Iskander marked the course of events with not less eagerness than Hunniades. Already Karam Bey had
more than once summoned him to bring the Epirots into action. He assented; but an hour passed away without changing his
position. At length, more from astonishment than rage, the Turkish commander sent his chief secretary Mousa himself to
impress his wishes upon his colleague, and obtain some explanation of his views and conduct. Mousa found Iskander
surrounded by some of the principal Epirot nobles, all mounted on horseback, and standing calmly under a wide-spreading
plane tree. The chief secretary of Karam Bey was too skilful a courtier to permit his countenance to express his
feelings, and he delivered himself of a mission rather as if he had come to request advice, than to communicate a
reprimand.

“Your master is a wise man, Mousa,” replied Iskander; “but even Karam Bey may be mistaken. He deems that a battle is
not to be won by loitering under a shadowy tree. Now I differ with him, and I even mean to win this day by such a piece
of truancy. However, it may certainly now be time for more active work. You smile encouragement, good Mousa. Giorgio,
Demetrius, to your duty!”

At these words, two stout Epirots advanced to the unfortunate secretary, seized and bound him, and placed him on
horseback before one of their comrades.

“Now all who love their country follow me!” exclaimed Iskander. So saying, and at the head of five thousand
horsemen, Iskander quitted the field at a rapid pace.

Chapter 6

With incredible celerity Iskander and his cavalry dashed over the plains of Roumelia, and never
halted, except for short and hurried intervals of rest and repose, until they had entered the mountainous borders of
Epirus, and were within fifty miles of its capital, Croia. On the eve of entering the kingdom of his fathers, Iskander
ordered his guards to produce the chief secretary of Karam Bey. Exhausted with fatigue, vexation, and terror, the
disconsolate Mousa was led forward.

“Cheer up, worthy Mousa!” said Iskander, lying his length on the green turf. “We have had a sharp ride; but I doubt
not we shall soon find ourselves, by the blessing of God, in good quarters. There is a city at hand which they call
Croia, and in which once, as the rumour runs, the son of my father should not have had to go seek for an entrance. No
matter. Methinks, worthy Mousa, thou art the only man in our society that can sign thy name. Come now, write me an
order signed Karam Bey to the governor of this said city, for its delivery up to the valiant champion of the Crescent,
Iskander, and thou shalt ride in future at a pace more suitable to a secretary.”

The worthy Mousa humbled himself to the ground, and then talking his writing materials from his girdle, inscribed
the desired order, and delivered it to Iskander, who, glancing at the inscription, pushed it into his vest.

“I shall proceed at once to Croia, with a few friends,” said Iskander; “do you, my bold companions, follow me this
eve in various parties, and in various routes. At dead of the second night, collect in silence before the gates of
Croia!”

Thus speaking, Iskander called for his now refreshed charger, and, accompanied by two hundred horsemen, bade
farewell for a brief period to his troops, and soon having crossed the mountains, descended into the fertile plains of
Epirus.

When the sun rose in the morning, Iskander and his friends beheld at the further end of the plain a very fine city
shining in the light. It was surrounded with lofty turreted walls flanked by square towers, and was built upon a gentle
eminence, which gave it a very majestic appearance. Behind it rose a lofty range of purple mountains of very
picturesque form, and the highest peaks capped with snow. A noble lake, from which troops of wild fowl occasionally
rose, expanded like a sheet of silver on one side of the city. The green breast of the contiguous hills sparkled with
white houses.

“Behold Croia!” exclaimed Iskander. “Our old fathers could choose a site, comrades. We shall see whether they
expended their time and treasure for strangers, or their own seed.” So saying, he spurred his horse, and with panting
hearts and smiling faces, Iskander and his company had soon arrived in the vicinity of the city.

The city was surrounded by a beautiful region of corn-fields and fruit-trees. The road was arched with the
over-hanging boughs. The birds chirped on every spray. It was a blithe and merry morn. Iskander plucked a bunch of
olives as he cantered along. “Dear friends,” he said, looking round with an inspiring smile, “let us gather our first
harvest!” And, thereupon, each putting forth his rapid hand, seized, as he rushed by, the emblem of possession, and
following the example of his leader, placed it in his cap.

They arrived at the gates of the city, which was strongly garrisoned; and Iskander, followed by his train, galloped
up the height of the citadel. Alighting from his horse, he was ushered into the divan of the governor, an ancient
Pacha, who received the conqueror of Caramania with all the respect that became so illustrious a champion of the
Crescent. After the usual forms of ceremonious hospitality, Iskander, with a courteous air presented him the order for
delivering up the citadel; and the old Pacha, resigning himself to the loss of his post with Oriental submission,
instantly delivered the keys of the citadel and town to Iskander, and requested permission immediately to quit the
scene of his late command.

Quitting the citadel, Iskander now proceeded through the whole town, and in the afternoon reviewed the Turkish
garrison in the great square. As the late governor was very anxious to quit Croia that very day, Iskander insisted on a
considerable portion of the garrison accompanying him as a guard of honour, and returning the next morning. The rest he
divided in several quarters, and placed the gates in charge of his own companions.

At midnight the Epirots, faithful to their orders, arrived and united beneath the walls of the city, and after
inter-changing the signals agreed upon, the gates were opened. A large body instantly marched and secured the citadel.
The rest, conducted by appointed leaders, surrounded the Turks in their quarters. And suddenly, in the noon of night,
in that great city, arose a clang so dreadful that people leapt up from their sleep and stared with stupor. Instantly
the terrace of every house blazed with torches, and it became as light as day. Troops of armed men were charging down
the streets, brandishing their scimitars and yataghans, and exclaiming, “The Cross, the Cross!” “Liberty!” “Greece!”
“Iskander and Epirus!” The townsmen recognised their countrymen by their language and their dress. The name of Iskander
acted as a spell. They stopt not to inquire. A magic sympathy at once persuaded them that this great man had, by the
grace of Heaven, recurred to the creed and country of his fathers. And so every townsman, seizing the nearest weapon,
with a spirit of patriotic frenzy, rushed into the streets, crying out, “The Cross, the Cross!” “Liberty!” “Greece!”
“Iskander and Epirus!” Ay! even the women lost all womanly fears, and stimulated instead of soothing the impulse of
their masters. They fetched them arms, they held the torches, they sent them forth with vows and prayers and
imprecations, their children clinging to their robes, and repeating with enthusiasm, phrases which they could not
comprehend.

The Turks fought with the desperation of men who feel that they are betrayed, and must be victims. The small and
isolated bodies were soon massacred, all with cold steel, for at this time, although some of the terrible inventions of
modern warfare were introduced, their use was not general. The citadel, indeed, was fortified with cannon; but the
greater part of the soldiery trusted to their crooked swords, and their unerring javelins. The main force of the
Turkish garrison had been quartered in an old palace of the Archbishop, situate in the middle of the city on a slightly
rising and open ground, a massy building of rustic stone. Here the Turks, although surrounded, defended themselves
desperately, using their cross bows with terrible effect; and hither, the rest of the city being now secured, Iskander
himself repaired to achieve its complete deliverance.

The Greeks had endeavoured to carry the principal entrance of the palace by main force, but the strength of the
portal had resisted their utmost exertions, and the arrows of the besieged had at length forced them to retire to a
distance. Iskander directed that two pieces of cannon should be dragged down from the citadel, and then played against
the entrance. In the meantime, he ordered immense piles of damp faggots to be lit before the building, the smoke of
which prevented the besieged from taking any aim. The ardour of the people was so great that the cannon were soon
served against the palace, and their effects were speedily remarked. The massy portal shook; a few blows of the
battering ram, and it fell. The Turks sallied forth, were received with a shower of Greek fire, and driven in with
agonising yells. Some endeavoured to escape from the windows, and were speared or cut down; some appeared wringing
their hands in despair upon the terraced roof. Suddenly the palace was announced to be on fire. A tall white-blueish
flame darted up from a cloud of smoke, and soon, as if by magic, the whole back of the building was encompassed with
rising tongues of red and raging light. Amid a Babel of shrieks, and shouts, and cheers, and prayers, and curses, the
roof of the palace fell in with a crash, which produced amid the besiegers an awful and momentary silence, but in an
instant they started from their strange inactivity, and rushing forward, leapt into the smoking ruins, and at the same
time completed the massacre and achieved their freedom.

Chapter 7

At break of dawn Iskander sent couriers throughout all Epirus, announcing the fall of Croia, and
that he had raised the standard of independence in his ancient country. He also despatched a trusty messenger to Prince
Nicæus at Athens, and to the great Hunniades. The people were so excited throughout all Epirus, at this great and
unthought-of intelligence, that they simultaneously rose in all the open country, and massacred the Turks, and the
towns were only restrained in a forced submission to Amurath, by the strong garrisons of the Sultan.

Now Iskander was very anxious to effect the removal of these garrisons without loss of time, in order that if
Amurath sent a great power against him, as he expected, the invading army might have nothing to rely upon but its own
force, and that his attention might not in any way be diverted from effecting their overthrow. Therefore, as soon as
his troops had rested, and he had formed his new recruits into some order, which, with their willing spirits, did not
demand many days, Iskander set out from Croia, at the head of twelve thousand men, and marched against the strong city
of Petrella, meeting in his way the remainder of the garrison of Croia on their return, who surrendered themselves to
him at discretion. Petrella was only one day’s march from Croia, and when Iskander arrived there he requested a
conference with the governor, and told his tale so well, representing the late overthrow of the Turks by Hunniades, and
the incapacity of Amurath at present to relieve him, that the Turkish commander agreed to deliver up the place, and
leave the country with his troops, particularly as the alternative of Iskander to these easy terms was ever conquest
without quarter. And thus, by a happy mixture of audacity and adroitness, the march of Iskander throughout Epirus was
rather like a triumph than a campaign, the Turkish garrisons imitating, without any exception, the conduct of their
comrades at Petrella, and dreading the fate of their comrades at the capital. In less than a month Iskander returned to
Epirus, having delivered the whole country from the Moslemin yoke.

Hitherto Iskander had heard nothing either of Hunniades or Nicæus. He learnt, therefore, with great interest, as he
passed through the gates of the city, that the Prince of Athens had arrived at Croia the preceding eve, and also that
his messenger had returned from the Hungarian camp. Amid the acclamations of an enthusiastic people, Iskander once more
ascended the citadel of Croia. Nicæus received him at the gate. Iskander sprang from his horse, and embraced his
friend. Hand in hand, and followed by their respective trains, they entered the fortress palace.

“Dear friend,” said Iskander, when they were once more alone, “you see we were right not to despair. Two months have
scarcely elapsed since we parted without prospect, or with the most gloomy one, and now we are in a fair way of
achieving all that we can desire. Epirus is free!”

“I came to claim my share in its emancipation,” said Nicæus, with a smile, “but Iskander is another Cæsar!”

“You will have many opportunities yet, believe me, Nicæus, of proving your courage and your patriotism,” replied
Iskander; “Amurath will never allow this affair to pass over in this quiet manner. I did not commence this struggle
without a conviction that it would demand all the energy and patience of a long life. I shall be rewarded if I leave
freedom as an heritage to my countrymen; but for the rest, I feel that I bid farewell to every joy of life, except the
ennobling consciousness of performing a noble duty. In the meantime, I understand a messenger awaits me here from the
great Hunniades. Unless that shield of Christendom maintain himself in his present position, our chance of ultimate
security is feeble. With his constant diversion in Bulgaria, we may contrive here to struggle into success. You
sometimes laugh at my sanguine temper, Nicæus. To say the truth, I am more serene than sanguine, and was never more
conscious of the strength of my opponent than now, when it appears that I have beaten him. Hark! the people cheer. I
love the people, Nicæus, who are ever influenced by genuine and generous feelings. They cheer as if they had once more
gained a country. Alas! they little know what they must endure even at the best. Nay! look not gloomy; we have done
great things, and will do more. Who waits without there? Demetrius! Call the messenger from Lord Hunniades.”

An Epirot bearing a silken packet was now introduced, which he delivered to Iskander. Reverently touching the hand
of his chieftain, the messenger then kissed his own and withdrew. Iskander broke the seal, and drew forth a letter from
the silken cover.

“So! this is well!” exclaimed the prince, with great animation, as he threw his quick eye over the letter. “As I
hoped and deemed, a most complete victory. Karam Bey himself a prisoner, baggage, standards, great guns, treasure.
Brave soldier of the Cross! (may I prove so!) Your perfectly-devised movement, (poh, poh!) Hah! what is this?”
exclaimed Iskander, turning pale; his lip quivered, his eye looked dim. He walked to an arched window. His companion,
who supposed that he was reading, did not disturb him.

“The sharpest accident of war!” replied Iskander. “It quite clouds my spirit. We must forget these things, we must
forget. Epirus! he is not a patriot who can spare a thought from thee. And yet, so young, so beautiful, so gifted, so
worthy of a hero! when I saw her by her great father’s side, sharing his toils, aiding his councils, supplying his
necessities, methought I gazed upon a ministering angel! upon —”

“Dead?” exclaimed Nicæus, rushing up to his companion, and seizing his arm.

“Worse, much worse!”

“God of Heaven!” exclaimed the young Prince, with almost a frantic air. “Tell me all, tell me all! This suspense
fires my brain. Iskander, you know not what this woman is to me; the sole object of my being, the bane, the blessing of
my life! Speak, dear friend, speak! I beseech you! Where is Iduna?”

“A prisoner to the Turk.”

“Iduna a prisoner to the Turk. I’ll not believe it! Why do we wear swords? Where’s chivalry? Iduna, a prisoner to
the Turk! ’Tis false. It cannot be. Iskander, you are a coward! I am a coward! All are cowards! A prisoner to the Turk!
Iduna! What, the Rose of Christendom! has it been plucked by such a turbaned dog as Amurath? Farewell, Epirus!
Farewell, classic Athens! Farewell, bright fields of Greece, and dreams that made them brighter! The sun of all my joy
and hope is set, and set for ever!”

So saying, Nicæus, tearing his hair and garments, flung himself upon the floor, and hid his face in his robes.

Iskander paced the room with a troubled step and thoughtful brow. After some minutes he leant down by the Prince of
Athens, and endeavoured to console him.

“It is in vain, Iskander, it is in vain,” said Nicæus. “I wish to die.”

“Were I a favoured lover, in such a situation,” replied Iskander, “I should scarcely consider death my duty, unless
the sacrifice of myself preserved my mistress.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Nicæus, starting from the ground. “Do you conceive, then, the possibility of rescuing her?”

“If she live, she is a prisoner in the Seraglio at Adrianople. You are as good a judge as myself of the prospect
that awaits your exertions. It is, without doubt, a difficult adventure, but such, methinks, as a Christian knight
should scarcely shun.”

“To horse;” exclaimed Nicæus, “to horse — And yet what can I do? Were she in any other place but the capital I might
rescue her by force, but in the heart of their empire, it is impossible. Is there no ransom that can tempt the Turk? My
principality would rise in the balance beside this jewel.”

“That were scarcely wise, and certainly not just,” replied Iskander; “but ransom will be of no avail. Hunniades has
already offered to restore Karam Bey, and all the prisoners of rank, and the chief trophies, and Amurath has refused to
listen to any terms. The truth is, Iduna has found favour in the eyes of his son, the young Mahomed.”

“Holy Virgin! hast thou no pity on this Christian maid?” exclaimed Nicæus. “The young Mahomed! Shall this licentious
infidel — ah! Iskander, dear, dear Iskander, you who have so much wisdom, and so much courage; you who can devise all
things, and dare all things; help me, help me; on my knees I do beseech you, take up this trying cause of foul
oppression, and for the sake of all you love and reverence, your creed, your country, and perchance your friend, let
your great genius, like some solemn angel, haste to the rescue of the sweet Iduna, and save her, save her!”

“Some thoughts like these were rising in my mind when first I spoke,” replied Iskander. “This is a better cue, far
more beseeming princes than boyish tears, and all the outward misery of woe, a tattered garment and dishevelled locks.
Come, Nicæus, we have to struggle with a mighty fortune. Let us be firm as Fate itself.”

Chapter 8

Immediately after his interview with Nicæus, Iskander summoned some of the chief citizens of Croia
to the citadel, and submitting to them his arrangements for the administration of Epirus, announced the necessity of
his instant departure for a short interval; and the same evening, ere the moon had risen, himself and the Prince of
Athens quitted the city, and proceeded in the direction of Adrianople. They travelled with great rapidity until they
reached a small town upon the frontiers, where they halted for one day. Here, in the Bazaar, Iskander purchased for
himself the dress of an Armenian physician. In his long dark robes, and large round cap of black wool, his face and
hands stained, and his beard and mustachios shaven, it seemed impossible that he could be recognised. Nicæus was
habited as his page, in a dress of coarse red cloth, setting tight to his form, with a red cap, with a long blue
tassel. He carried a large bag containing drugs, some surgical instruments, and a few books. In this guise, as soon as
the gates were open on the morrow, Iskander, mounted on a very small mule, and Nicæus on a very large donkey, the two
princes commenced the pass of the mountainous range, an arm of the Balkan which divided Epirus from Roumelia.

“I broke the wind of the finest charger in all Asia when I last ascended these mountains,” said Iskander; “I hope
this day’s journey way be accepted as a sort of atonement.”

“Faith! there is little doubt I am the best mounted of the two,” said Nicæus. “However, I hope we shall return at a
sharper pace.”

“How came it, my Nicæus,” said Iskander, “that you never mentioned to me the name of Iduna when we were at Athens? I
little supposed when I made my sudden visit to Hunniades, that I was about to appeal to so fair a host. She is a rarely
gifted lady.”

“I knew of her being at the camp as little as yourself,” replied the Prince of Athens, “and for the rest, the truth
is, Iskander, there are some slight crosses in our loves, which Time, I hope, will fashion rightly.” So saying Nicæus
pricked on his donkey, and flung his stick at a bird which was perched on the branch of a tree. Iskander did not resume
a topic to which his companion seemed disinclined. Their journey was tedious. Towards nightfall they reached the summit
of the usual track; and as the descent was difficult, they were obliged to rest until daybreak.

On the morrow they had a magnificent view of the rich plains of Roumelia, and in the extreme distance, the great
city of Adrianople, its cupolas and minarets blazing and sparkling in the sun. This glorious prospect at once revived
all their energies. It seemed that the moment of peril and of fate had arrived. They pricked on their sorry steeds; and
on the morning of the next day, presented themselves at the gates of the city. The thorough knowledge which Iskander
possessed of the Turkish character obtained them an entrance, which was at one time almost doubtful, from the
irritability and impatience of Nicæus. They repaired to a caravansera of good repute in the neighbourhood of the
seraglio; and having engaged their rooms, the Armenian physician, attended by his page, visited several of the
neighbouring coffee-houses, announcing, at the same time, his arrival, his profession, and his skill.

As Iskander felt pulses, examined tongues, and distributed drugs and charms, he listened with interest and amusement
to the conversation of which he himself was often the hero. He found that the Turks had not yet recovered from their
consternation at his audacity and success. They were still wondering, and if possible more astounded than indignant.
The politicians of the coffee-houses, chiefly consisting of Janissaries, were loud in their murmurs. The popularity of
Amurath had vanished before the triumph of Hunniades, and the rise of Iskander.

“But Allah has in some instances favoured the faithful,” remarked Iskander; “I heard in my travels of your having
captured a great princess of the Giaours.”

“God is great!” said an elderly Turk with a long white heard. “The Hakim congratulates the faithful because they
have taken a woman!”

“Not so merely,” replied Iskander; “I heard the woman was a princess. If so, the people of Franguestan will pay any
ransom for their great women; and, by giving up this fair Giaour, you may free many of the faithful.”

“May I murder my mother!” exclaimed a young Janissary, with great indignation. “But this is the very thing that
makes me wild against Amurath. Is not this princess a daughter of that accursed Giaour, that dog of dogs, Hunniades?
and has he not offered for her ransom our brave Karam Bey himself, and his chosen warriors? and has not Amurath said
nay? And why has he said nay? Because his son, the Prince of Mahomed, instead of fighting against the Giaours, has
looked upon one of their women, and has become a Mejnoun. Pah! May I murder my mother, but if the Giaours were in full
march to the city, I’d not fight. And let him tell this to the Cadi who dares; for there are ten thousand of us, and we
have sworn by the Kettle but we will not fight for Giaours, or those who love Giaours!”

“If you mean me, Ali, about going to the Cadi,” said the chief eunuch of Mahomed, who was standing by, “let me tell
you I am no tale-bearer, and scorn to do an unmanly act. The young prince can beat the Giaours without the aid of those
who are noisy enough in a coffee-house when they are quiet enough in the field. And, for the rest of the business, you
may all ease your hearts; for the Frangy princess you talk of is pining away, and will soon die. The Sultan has offered
a hundred purses of gold to any one who cures her; but the gold will never be counted by the Hasnadar, or I will double
it.”

“Try your fortune, Hakim,” said several laughing loungers to Iskander.

“Allah has stricken the Frangy princess,” said the old Turk with a white beard.

“He will strike all Giaours,” said his ancient companion, sipping his coffee. “It is so written.”

“Well! I do not like to hear of women slaves pining to death,” said the young Janissary, in a softened tone,
“particularly when they are young. Amurath should have ransomed her, or he might have given her to one of his officers,
or any young fellow that had particularly distinguished himself.” And so, twirling his mustachios, and flinging down
his piastre, the young Janissary strutted out of the coffee-house.

“When we were young,” said the old Turk with the white beard to his companion, shaking his head, “when we were young
—”

“We conquered Anatolia, and never opened our mouths,” rejoined his companion.

“I never offered an opinion till I was sixty,” said the old Turk; “and then it was one which had been in our family
for a century.”

“No wonder Hunniades carries everything before him,” said his companion.

“And that accursed Iskander,” said the old man.

The chief eunuch, finishing his vase of sherbet, moved away. The Armenian physician followed him.

Chapter 9

The chief eunuch turned into a burial-ground, through which a way led, by an avenue of
cypress-trees, to the quarter of the Seraglio. The Armenian physician, accompanied by his page, followed him.

“Noble sir!” said the Armenian physician; “may I trespass for a moment on your lordship’s attention?”

“Worthy Hakim, is it you?” replied the chief eunuch, turning round with an encouraging smile of courteous
condescension, “your pleasure?”

“I would speak to you of important matters,” said the physician.

The eunuch carelessly seated himself on a richly-carved tomb, and crossing his legs with an air of pleasant
superiority, adjusted a fine emerald that sparkled on his finger, and bade the Hakim address him without
hesitation.

“I am a physician,” said the Armenian.

The eunuch nodded.

“And I heard your lordship in the coffee-house mention that the Sultan, our sublime Master, had offered a rich
reward to any one who could effect the cure of a favourite captive.”

“No less a reward than one hundred purses of gold,” remarked the eunuch. “The reward is proportioned to the exigency
of the cue. Believe me, worthy sir, it is desperate.”

“With mortal means,” replied the Armenian; “but I possess a talisman of magical influence, which no disorder can
resist. I would fain try its efficacy.”

“This is not the first talisman that has been offered us, worthy doctor,” said the eunuch, smiling
incredulously.

“But the first that has been offered on these terms,” said the Armenian. “Let me cure the captive, and of the one
hundred purses, a moiety shall belong to yourself. Ay! so confident am I of success, that I deem it no hazard to
commence our contract by this surety.” And so saying, the Armenian took from his finger a gorgeous carbuncle, and
offered it to the eunuch. The worthy dependent of the Seraglio had a great taste in jewellery. He examined the stone
with admiration, and placed it on his finger with complacency. “I require no inducements to promote the interests of
science, and the purposes of charity,” said the eunuch, with a patronising air. “’Tis assuredly a pretty stone, and, as
the memorial of an ingenious stranger, whom I respect, I shall, with pleasure, retain it. You were saying something
about a talisman. Are you serious? I doubt not that there are means which might obtain you the desired trial; but the
Prince Mahomed is as violent when displeased or disappointed as munificent when gratified. Cure this Christian captive,
and we may certainly receive the promised purses: fail, and your head will as assuredly be flung into the Seraglio
moat, to say nothing of my own.”

“Most noble sir!” said the physician, “I am willing to undertake the experiment on the terms you mention. Rest
assured that the patient, if alive, must, with this remedy, speedily recover. You marvel! Believe me, had you witnessed
the cures which it has already effected, you would only wonder at its otherwise incredible influence.”

“You have the advantage,” replied the eunuch, “of addressing a man who has seen something of the world. I travel
every year to Anatolia with the Prince Mahomed. Were I a narrow-minded bigot, and had never been five miles from
Adrianople in the whole course of my life, I might indeed be sceptical. But I am a patron of science, and have heard of
talismans. How much might this ring weigh, think you?”

“I have heard it spoken of as a carbuncle of uncommon size,” replied the Armenian.

“Where did you say you lodged, Hakim?”

“At the Khan of Bedreddin.”

“A very proper dwelling. Well, we shall see. Have you more jewels? I might, perhaps, put you in the way of parting
with some at good prices. The Khan of Bedreddin is very conveniently situated. I may, perhaps, towards evening, taste
your coffee at the Khan of Bedreddin, and we will talk of this said talisman. Allah be with you, worthy Hakim!” The
eunuch nodded, not without encouragement, and went his way.

“Hush, my friend!” said Iskander, with a smile. “The chief eunuch of the heir apparent of the Turkish empire is a
far greater man than a poor prince, or a proscribed rebel. This worthy can do our business, and I trust will. He
clearly bites, and a richer bait will, perhaps, secure him. In the meantime, we must be patient, and remember whose
destiny is at stake.”

Chapter 10

The chief eunuch did not keep the adventurous companions long in suspense; for, before the muezzin
had announced the close of day from the minarets, he had reached the Khan of Bedreddin, and inquired for the Armenian
physician.

“We have no time to lose,” said the eunuch to Iskander. “Bring with you whatever you may require, and follow
me.”

The eunuch led the way, Iskander and Nicæus maintaining a respectful distance. After proceeding down several
streets, they arrived at the burial-ground, where they had conversed in the morning; and when they had entered that
more retired spot, the eunuch fell back, and addressed his companion.

“Now, worthy Hakim,” he said, “if you deceive me, I will never patronize a man of science again. I found an
opportunity of speaking to the Prince this afternoon of your talisman, and he has taken from my representations such a
fancy for its immediate proof, that I found it quite impossible to postpone its trial even until tomorrow. I mentioned
the terms. I told the Prince your life was the pledge. I said nothing of the moiety of the reward, worthy Hakim. That
is an affair between ourselves. I trust to your honour, and I always act thus with men of science.”

“I doubt it not. Are you prepared? We might, perhaps, gain a little time, if very necessary.”

“By no means, sir; Truth is ever prepared.”

Thus conversing, they passed through the burial-ground, and approached some high, broad walls, forming a terrace,
and planted with young sycamore-trees. The eunuch tapped with his silver stick, at a small gate, which opened, and
admitted them into a garden, full of large clumps of massy shrubs. Through these a winding walk led for some way, and
then conducted them to an open lawn, on which was situate a vast and irregular building. As they approached the pile, a
young man of very imperious aspect rushed forward from a gate, and abruptly accosted Iskander.

“Are you the Armenian physician?” he inquired.

Iskander bowed assent.

“Have you got your talisman? You know the terms? Cure this Christian girl and you shall name your own reward; fail,
and I shall claim your forfeit head.”

“The terms are well understood, mighty Prince,” said Iskander, for the young man was no less a personage than the
son of Amurath, and future conqueror of Constantinople; “but I am confident there will be no necessity for the terror
of Christendom claiming any other heads than those of his enemies.”

“Kaflis will conduct you at once to your patient,” said Mahomed. “For myself, I cannot rest until I know the result
of your visit. I shall wander about these gardens, and destroy the flowers, which is the only pleasure now left
me.”

Kaflis motioned to his companions to advance, and they entered the Seraglio.

At the end of a long gallery they came to a great portal, which Kaflis opened, and Iskander and Nicæus for a moment
supposed that they had arrived at the chief hall of the Tower of Babel, but they found the shrill din only proceeded
from a large company of women, who were employed in distilling the rare atar of the jasmine flower. All their voices
ceased on the entrance of the strangers, as if by a miracle; but when they had examined them, and observed that it was
only a physician and his boy, their awe, or their surprise, disappeared; and they crowded round Iskander, some holding
out their wrists, others lolling out their tongues, and some asking questions, which perplexed alike the skill and the
modesty of the adventurous dealer in magical medicine. The annoyance, however, was not of great duration, for Kaflis so
belaboured their fair shoulders with his official baton, that they instantly retreated with precipitation, uttering the
most violent shrieks, and bestowing on the eunuch so many titles, that Iskander and his page were quite astounded at
the intuitive knowledge which the imprisoned damsels possessed of that vocabulary of abuse, which is in general
mastered only by the experience of active existence.

Quitting this chamber, the eunuch and his companions ascended a lofty staircase. They halted at length before a
door. “This is the chamber of the tower,” said their guide, “and here we shall find the fair captive.” He knocked, the
door was opened by a female slave, and Iskander and Nicæus, with an anxiety they could with difficulty conceal, were
ushered into a small but sumptuous apartment. In the extremity was a recess covered with a light gauzy curtain. The
eunuch bidding them keep in the background, advanced, and cautiously withdrawing the curtain slightly aside, addressed
some words in a low voice to the inmate of the recess. In a few minutes the eunuch beckoned to Iskander to advance, and
whispered to him: “She would not at first see you, but I have told her you are a Christian, the more the pity, and she
consents.” So saying, he withdrew the curtain, and exhibited a veiled female figure lying on a couch.

“Noble lady,” said the physician in Greek, which he had ascertained the eunuch did not comprehend; “pardon the zeal
of a Christian friend. Though habited in this garb, I have served under your illustrious sire. I should deem my life
well spent in serving the daughter of the great Hunniades.”

“Kind stranger,” replied the captive, “I was ill prepared for such a meeting. I thank you for your sympathy, but my
sad fortunes are beyond human aid.”

“God works by humble instruments, noble lady,” said Iskander, “and with his blessing we may yet prosper.”

“I fear that I must look to death as my only refuge,” replied Iduna, “and still more, I fear that it is not so
present a refuge as my oppressors themselves imagine. But you are a physician; tell me then how speedily Nature will
make me free.”

She held forth her hand, which Iskander took and involuntarily pressed. “Noble lady,” he said, “my skill is a mere
pretence to enter these walls. The only talisman I bear with me is a message from your friends.”

“Indeed!” said Iduna, in an agitated tone.

“Restrain yourself, noble lady,” said Iskander, interposing, “restrain yourself. Were you any other but the daughter
of Hunniades I would not have ventured upon this perilous exploit. But I know that the Lady Iduna has inherited
something more than the name of her great ancestors — their heroic soul. If ever there were a moment in her life in
which it behoved her to exert all her energies, that moment has arrived. The physician who addresses her, and his
attendant who waits at hand, are two of the Lady Iduna’s most devoted friends. There is nothing that they will not
hazard, to effect her delivery; and they have matured a plan of escape which they are sanguine must succeed. Yet its
completion will require, on her part, great anxiety of mind, greater exertion of body, danger, fatigue, privation. Is
the Lady Iduna prepared for all this endurance, and all this hazard?”

“Noble friend,” replied Iduna, “for I cannot deem you a stranger, and none but a most chivalric knight could have
entered upon this almost forlorn adventure; you have not, I trust, miscalculated my character. I am a slave, and unless
heaven will interpose, must soon be a dishonoured one. My freedom and my fame are alike at stake. There is no danger,
and no suffering which I will not gladly welcome, provided there be even a remote chance of regaining my liberty and
securing my honour.”

“You are in the mind I counted on. Now, mark my words, dear lady. Seize an opportunity this evening of expressing to
your gaolers that you have already experienced some benefit from my visit, and announce your rising confidence in my
skill. In the meantime I will make such a report that our daily meetings will not be difficult. For the present,
farewell. The Prince Mahomed waits without, and I would exchange some words with him before I go.”

“And must we part without my being acquainted with the generous friends to whom I am indebted for an act of devotion
which almost reconciles me to my sad fate?” said Iduna. “You will not, perhaps, deem the implicit trust reposed in you
by one whom you have no interest to deceive, and who, if deceived, cannot be placed in a worse position than she at
present fills, as a very gratifying mark of confidence, yet that trust is reposed in you; and let me, at least, soothe
the galling dreariness of my solitary hours, by the recollection of the friends to whom I am indebted for a deed of
friendship which has filled me with a feeling of wonder from which I have not yet recovered.”

“The person who has penetrated the Seraglio of Constantinople in disguise to rescue the Lady Iduna,” answered
Iskander, “is the Prince Nicæus.”

“Nicæus!” exclaimed Iduna, in an agitated tone. “The voice to which I listen is surely not that of the Prince
Nicæus; nor the form on which I gaze,” she added, as she unveiled. Beside her stood the tall figure of the Armenian
physician. She beheld his swarthy and unrecognised countenance. She cast her dark eyes around with an air of beautiful
perplexity.

“I am a friend of the Prince Nicæus,” said the physician. “He is here. Shall he advance? Alexis,” called cut,
Iskander, not waiting for her reply. The page of the physician came forward, but the eunuch accompanied him. “All is
right,” said Iskander to Kaflis. “We are sure of our hundred purses. But, without doubt, with any other aid, the case
were desperate.”

“There is but one God,” said the eunuch, polishing his carbuncle, with a visage radiant as the gem. “I never
repented patronizing men of science. The prince waits without. Come along!” He took Iskander by the arm. “Where is your
boy? What are you doing there, sir?” inquired the eunuch, sharply, of Nicæus, who, was tarrying behind, and kissing the
hand of Iduna.

“I was asking the lady for a favour to go to the coffee-house with;” replied Nicæus, “you forget that I am to have
none of the hundred purses.”

“True,” said the eunuch; “there is something in that. Here, boy, here is a piastre for you. I like to encourage men
of science, and all that belong to them. Do not go and spend it all in one morning, boy, and when the fair captive is
cured, if you remind me, boy, perhaps I may give you another.”

Chapter 11

Kaflis and his charge again reached the garden. The twilight was nearly past. A horseman galloped up
to them, followed by several running footmen. It was the prince.

“Well, Hakim,” he inquired, in his usual abrupt style, “can you cure her?”

“Yes;” answered Iskander, firmly.

“Now listen, Hakim,” said Mahomed. “I must very shortly leave the city, and proceed into Epirus at the head of our
troops. I have sworn two things, and I have sworn them by the holy stone. Ere the new moon, I will have the heart of
Iduna and the head of Iskander!”

The physician bowed.

“If you can so restore the health of this Frangy girl,” continued Mahomed, “that she may attend me within ten days
into Epirus, you shall claim from my treasury what sum you like, and become physician to the Seraglio. What say
you?”

“My hope and my belief is,” replied Iskander, “that within ten days she may breathe the air of Epirus.”

“By my father’s beard, you are a man after my own heart,” exclaimed the prince; “and since thou dealest in
talismans, Hakim, can you give me a charm that you will secure me a meeting with this Epirot rebel within the term, so
that I may keep my oath. What say you? what say you?”

“There are such spells,” replied Iskander. “But mark, I can only secure the meeting, not the head.”

“That is my part,” said Mahomed, with an arrogant sneer. “But the meeting, the meeting?”

“You know the fountain of Kallista in Epirus. Its virtues are renowned.”

“I have beard of it.”

“Plunge your scimitar in its midnight waters thrice, on the eve of the new moon, and each time summon the enemy you
would desire to meet. He will not fail you.”

“If you cure the captive, I will credit the legend, and keep the appointment,” replied Mahomed, thoughtfully.

“I have engaged to do that,” replied the physician.

“Well, then, I shall redeem my pledge,” said the prince

“But mind,” said the physician, “while I engage to cure the lady and produce the warrior, I can secure your highness
neither the heart of the one nor the head of the other.”

“’Tis understood,” said Mahomed.

Chapter 12

The Armenian physician did not fail to attend his captive patient at an early hour on the ensuing
morn. His patron Kaflis received him with an encouraging smile.

“The talisman already works;” said the eunuch: “she has passed a good night, and confesses to an improvement. Our
purses are safe. Methinks I already count the gold. But I say, worthy Hakim, come hither, come hither,” and Kaflis
looked around to be sure that no one was within hearing, “I say,” and here he put on a very mysterious air indeed, “the
prince is generous; you understand? We go shares. We shall not quarrel. I never yet repented patronizing a man of
science, and I am sure I never shall. The prince, you see, is violent, but generous. I would not cure her too soon,
eh?”

“You take a most discreet view of affairs,” responded Iskander, with an air of complete assent, and they entered the
chamber of the tower.

Iduna performed her part with great dexterity; but, indeed, it required less skill than herself and her advisers had
at first imagined. Her malady, although it might have ended fatally, was in its origin entirely mental, and the sudden
prospect of freedom, and of restoration to her country and her family, at a moment when she had delivered herself up to
despair, afforded her a great and instantaneous benefit. She could not, indeed, sufficiently restrain her spirits, and
smiled incredulously when Iskander mentioned the impending exertion and fatigues with doubt and apprehension. His
anxiety to return immediately to Epirus, determined him to adopt the measures for her rescue without loss of time, and
on his third visit, he prepared her for making the great attempt on the ensuing morn. Hitherto Iskander had refrained
from revealing himself to Iduna. He was induced to adopt this conduct by various considerations. He could no longer
conceal from himself that the daughter of Hunniades exercised an influence over his feelings which he was unwilling to
encourage. His sincere friendship for Nicæus, and his conviction that It was his present duty to concentrate all his
thought and affection in the cause of his country, would have rendered him anxious to have resisted any emotions of the
kind, even could he have flattered himself that there was any chance of their being returned by the object of his
rising passion. But Iskander was as modest as he was brave and gifted. The disparity of age between himself and Iduna
appeared an insuperable barrier to his hopes, even had there been no other obstacle. Iskander struggled with his love,
and with his strong mind the struggle, though painful, was not without success. He felt that he was acting in a manner
which must ultimately tend to the advantage of his country, the happiness of his friend, and perhaps the maintenance of
his own self-respect. For he had too much pride not to be very sensible to the bitterness of rejection.

Had he perceived more indications of a very cordial feeling subsisting between Nicæus and Iduna, he would perhaps
not have persisted in maintaining his disguise. But he had long suspected that the passion of the Prince of Athens was
not too favourably considered by the daughter of Hunniades, and he was therefore exceedingly anxious that Nicæus should
possess all the credit of the present adventure, which Iskander scarcely doubted, if successful, would allow Nicæus to
urge irresistible claims to the heart of a mistress whom he had rescued at the peril of his life from slavery and
dishonour, to offer rank, reputation, and love. Iskander took, therefore, several opportunities of leading Iduna to
believe that he was merely the confidential agent of Nicæus, and that the whole plan of her rescue from the Seraglio of
Adrianople bad been planned by his young friend. In the meantime, during the three days on which they had for short
intervals met, very few words had been interchanged between Nicæus and his mistress. Those words, indeed, had been to
him of the most inspiring nature, and expressed such a deep scale of gratitude, and such lively regard, that Nicæus
could no longer resist the delightful conviction that he had at length created a permanent interest in her heart. Often
he longed to rush to her couch, and press her hand to his lips. Even the anticipation of future happiness could not
prevent him from envying the good fortune of Iskander, who was allowed to converse with her without restraint; and
bitterly, on their return to the khan, did he execrate the pompous eunuch for all the torture which he occasioned him
by his silly conversation, and the petty tyranny of office with which Kaflis always repressed his attempts to converse
for a moment with Iduna.

In the meantime all Adrianople sounded with the preparations for the immediate invasion of Epirus, and the return of
Iskander to his country became each hour more urgent. Everything being prepared, the adventurers determined on the
fourth morning to attempt the rescue. They repaired as usual to the Serail, and were attended by Kaflis to the chamber
of the tower, who congratulated Iskander on their way on the rapid convalescence of the captive. When they had fairly
entered the chamber, the physician being somewhat in advance, Nicæus, who was behind, commenced proceedings by knocking
down the eunuch, and Iskander instantly turning round to his assistance, they succeeded in gagging and binding the
alarmed and astonished Kaflis. Iduna then exhibited herself in a costume exactly similar to that worn by Nicæus, and
which her friends had brought to her in their big. Iskander and Iduna then immediately quitted the Serail without
notice or suspicion, and hurried to the khan, where they mounted their horses, that were in readiness, and hastened
without a moment’s loss of time to a fountain without the gates, where they awaited the arrival of Nicæus with anxiety.
After remaining a few minutes in the chamber of the tower, the Prince of Athens stole out, taking care to secure the
door upon Kaflis, he descended the staircase, and escaped through the Serail without meeting any one, and had nearly
reached the gate of the gardens, when he was challenged by some of the eunuch guard at a little distance.

“Hilloa!” exclaimed one; “I thought you passed just now?”

“So I did,” replied Nicæus, with nervous effrontery; “but I came back for my bag, which I left behind,” and, giving
them no time to reflect, he pushed his way through the gate with all the impudence of a page. He rushed through the
burial-ground, hurried through the streets, mounted his horse, and galloped through the gates. Iskander and Iduna were
in sight, he waved his hand for them at once to proceed, and in a moment, without exchanging a word, they were all
galloping at full speed, nor did they breathe their horses until sunset.

By nightfall they had reached a small wood of chestnut-trees, where they rested for two hours, more for the sake of
their steeds than their own refreshment, for anxiety prevented Iduna from indulging in any repose, as much as
excitement prevented her from feeling any fatigue. Iskander lit a fire and prepared their rough meal, unharnessed the
horses, and turned them out to their pasture. Nicæus made Iduna a couch of fern and supported her head, while, in
deference to his entreaties she endeavoured in vain to sleep. Before midnight they were again on their way, and
proceeded at a rapid pace towards the mountains, until a few hours before noon, when their horses began to sink under
the united influence of their previous exertions and the increasing heat of the day. Iskander looked serious, and often
threw a backward glance in the direction of Adrianople.

“We must be beyond pursuit,” said Nicæus. “I dare say poor Kaflis is still gagged and bound.”

“Could we but reach the mountains,” replied his companion, “I should have little fear, but I counted upon our steeds
carrying us there without faltering. We cannot reckon upon more than three hours’ start, prince. Our friend Kaflis is
too important a personage to be long missed.”

They had now ascended a small rising ground, which gave the wide prospect over the plain. Iskander halted and threw
an anxious glance around him.

“There are some horsemen in the distance whom I do not like,” said the physician.

“I see them,” said Nicæus; “travellers like ourselves.”

“Let us die sooner than be taken,” said Iduna.

“Move on,” said the physician, “and let me observe these horsemen alone. I would there were some forest at hand. In
two hours we may gain the mountains.”

The daughter of Hunniades and the Prince of Athens descended the rising ground. Before them, but at a considerable
distance was a broad and rapid river, crossed by a ruinous Roman bridge. The opposite bank of the river was the
termination of a narrow plain, which led immediately to the mountains.

“Fair Iduna, you are safe,” said the Prince of Athens.

“Dear Nicæus,” replied his companion, “imagine what I feel.”

“It is too wild a moment to express my gratitude.”

“I trust that Iduna will never express her gratitude to Nicæus,” answered the prince; “it is not, I assure you, a
favourite word with him.”

Their companion rejoined them, urging his wearied horse to its utmost speed.

“Nicæus!” he called out, “halt.”

They stopped their willing horses.

“How now! my friend;” said the prince; “you look grave.”

“Lady Iduna!” said the Armenian, “we are pursued.”

Hitherto the prospect of success, and the consciousness of the terrible destiny that awaited failure, had supported
Iduna under exertions, which under any other circumstances must have proved fatal. But to learn, at the very moment
that she was congratulating herself on the felicitous completion of their daring enterprise, that that dreaded failure
was absolutely impending, demanded too great an exertion of her exhausted energies. She turned pale; she lifted up her
imploring hands and eyes to heaven in speechless agony, and then, bending down her head, wept with unrestrained and
harrowing violence. The distracted Nicæus sprung from his horse, endeavoured to console the almost insensible Iduna,
and then woefully glancing at his fellow adventurer, wrung his hands in despair. His fellow adventurer seemed lost in
thought.

“They come,” said Nicæus, starting; “methinks I see one on the brow of the hill. Away! fly! Let us at least die
fighting. Dear, dear Iduna, would that my life could ransom thine! O God! this is indeed agony.”

“Escape is impossible,” said Iduna, in a tone of calmness which astonished them. “They must overtake us. Alas! brave
friends, I have brought ye to this! Pardon me, pardon me! I am ashamed of my selfish grief. Ascribe it to other causes
than a narrow spirit and a weak mind. One course alone is left to us. We must not be taken prisoners. Ye are warriors,
and can die as such. I am only a woman, but I am the daughter of Hunniades. Nicæus, you are my father’s friend; I
beseech you sheathe your dagger in my breast.”

The prince in silent agony pressed his hands to his sight. His limbs quivered with terrible emotion. Suddenly he
advanced and threw himself at the feet of his hitherto silent comrade. “Oh! Iskander!” exclaimed Nicæus, “great and
glorious friend! my head and heart are both too weak for these awful trials; save her, save her!”

“Iskander! exclaimed the thunderstruck Iduna. Iskander!”

“I have, indeed, the misfortune to be Iskander, beloved lady,” he replied. “This is, indeed, a case almost of
desperation, but if I have to endure more than most men, I have, to inspire me, influences which fall to the lot of
few, yourself and Epirus. Come! Nicæus, there is but one chance, we must gain the bridge.” Thus speaking, Iskander
caught Iduna in his arms, and remounting his steed, and followed by the Prince of Athens, hurried towards the
river.

“The water is not fordable,” said Iskander, when they had arrived at its bank. “The bridge I shall defend; and it
will go hard if I do not keep them at bay long enough for you and Iduna to gain the mountains. Away; think no more of
me; nay! no tear, dear lady, or you will unman me. An ins inspiring smile, and all will go well. Hasten to Croia, and
let nothing tempt you to linger in the vicinity, with the hope of my again joining you. Believe me, we shall meet
again, but act upon what I say, as if they were my dying words. God bless you, Nicæus! No murmuring. For once let the
physician, indeed, command his page. Gentle lady, commend me to your father. Would I had such a daughter in Epirus, to
head my trusty brethren if I fall. Tell the great Hunniades my legacy to him is my country. Farewell, farewell!”

“I will not say farewell!” exclaimed Iduna; “I too can fight. I will stay and die with you.”

“See they come! Believe me I shall conquer. Fly, fly, thou noble girl! Guard her well, Nicæus. God bless thee, boy!
Live and be happy. Nay, nay, not another word. The farther ye are both distant, trust me, the stronger will be my arm.
Indeed, indeed, I do beseech ye, fly!”

Nicæus placed the weeping Iduna in her saddle, and after leading her horse over the narrow and broken bridge,
mounted his own, and then they ascended together the hilly and winding track. Iskander watched them as they went. Often
Iduna waved her kerchief to her forlorn champion. In the meantime Iskander tore off his Armenian robes and flung them
into the river, tried his footing on the position he had taken up, stretched his limbs, examined his daggers,
flourished his scimitar.

The bridge would only permit a single rider to pass abreast. It was supported by three arches, the centre one of
very considerable size, the others small, and rising out of the shallow water on each side. In many parts the parapet
wall was broken, in some even the pathway was almost impassable from the masses of fallen stone, and the dangerous
fissures. In the centre of the middle arch was an immense key-stone, on which was sculptured, in high relief, an
enormous helmet, which indeed gave, among the people of the country, a title to the bridge.

A band of horsemen dashed at full speed, with a loud shout, down the bill. They checked their horses, when to their
astonishment they found Iskander with his drawn scimitar, prepared to resist their passage. But they paused only for a
moment, and immediately attempted to swim the river. But their exhausted horses drew back with a strong instinct from
the rushing waters: one of the band alone, mounted on a magnificent black mare, succeeding in his purpose. The rider
was half-way in the stream, his high-bred steed snorting and struggling in the strong current. Iskander, with the same
ease as if he were plucking the ripe fruit from a tree, took up a ponderous stone, and hurled it with fatal precision
at his adventurous enemy. The rider shrieked and fell, and rose no more: the mare, relieved from her burthen, exerted
all her failing energies, and succeeded in gaining the opposite bank. There, rolling herself in the welcome pasture,
and neighing with a note of triumph, she revelled in her hard escape.

“Cut down the Giaour!” exclaimed one of the horsemen, and he dashed at the bridge. His fragile blade shivered into a
thousand pieces as it crossed the scimitar of Iskander, and in a moment his bleeding head fell over the parapet.

Instantly the whole band, each emulous of revenging his comrades, rushed without thought at Iskander, and
endeavoured to overpower him by their irresistible charge. His scimitar flashed like lightning. The two foremost of his
enemies fell, but the impulse of the numbers prevailed, and each instant, although dealing destruction with every blow,
he felt himself losing ground. At length he was on the centre of the centre arch, an eminent position, which allowed
him for a moment to keep them at bay, and gave him breathing time. Suddenly he made a desperate charge, clove the head
of the leader of the band in two, and beat them back several yards; then swiftly returning to his former position, he
summoned all his supernatural strength, and stamping on the mighty, but mouldering keystone, he forced it from its
form, and broke the masonry of a thousand years. Amid a loud and awful shriek, horses and horsemen, and the dissolving
fragments of the scene for a moment mingled as it were in airy chaos, and then plunged with a horrible plash into the
fatal depths below. Some fell, and, stunned by the massy fragments, rose no more; others struggled again into light,
and gained with difficulty their old shore. Amid them, Iskander, unhurt, swam like a river god, and stabbed to the
heart the only strong swimmer that was making his way in the direction of Epirus. Drenched and exhausted, Iskander at
length stood upon the opposite margin, and wrung his garments, while he watched the scene of strange destruction.

Three or four exhausted wretches were lying bruised and breathless on the opposite bank: one drowned horse was
stranded near them, caught by the rushes. Of all that brave company the rest had vanished, and the broad, and blue, and
sunny waters rushed without a shadow beneath the two remaining arches.

“Iduna! thou art safe,” exclaimed Iskander. “Now for Epirus!” So saying, he seized the black mare, renovated by her
bath and pasture, and vaulting on her back, was in a few minutes bounding over his native hills.

Chapter 13

In the meantime let us not forget the Prince of Athens and the Lady Iduna. These adventurous
companions soon lost sight of their devoted champion, and entered a winding ravine, which gradually brought them to the
summit of the first chain of the Epirot mountains. From it they looked down upon a vast and rocky valley, through which
several mule tracks led in various directions, and entered the highest barrier of the mountains, which rose before them
covered with forests of chestnut and ilex. Nicæus chose the track which he considered least tempting to pursuit, and
towards sunset they had again entered a ravine washed by a mountain stream. The course of the waters had made the earth
fertile and beautiful. Wild shrubs of gay and pleasant colours refreshed their wearied eye-sight, and the perfume of
aromatic plants invigorated their jaded senses. Upon the bank of the river, too, a large cross of roughly-carved wood
brought comfort to their Christian hearts, and while the holy emblem filled them with hope and consolation, and seemed
an omen of refuge from their Moslemin oppressors, a venerable Eremite, with a long white beard descending over his dark
robes, and leaning on a staff of thorn, came forth from an adjoining cavern to breathe the evening air and pour forth
his evening orisons.

Iduna and Nicæus had hitherto prosecuted their sorrowful journey almost in silence. Exhausted with anxiety,
affliction, and bodily fatigue, with difficulty the daughter of Hunniades could preserve her seat upon her steed. One
thought alone interested her, and by its engrossing influence maintained her under all her sufferings, the memory of
Iskander. Since she first met him, at the extraordinary interview in her father’s pavilion, often had the image of the
hero recurred to her fancy, often had she mused over his great qualities and strange career. His fame, so dangerous to
female hearts, was not diminished by his presence. And now, when Iduna recollected that she was indebted to him for all
that she held dear, that she owed to his disinterested devotion, not only life, but all that renders life desirable,
honour and freedom, country and kindred, that image was invested with associations and with sentiments, which, had
Iskander himself been conscious of their existence, would have lent redoubled vigour to his arm, and fresh inspiration
to his energy. More than once Iduna had been on the point of inquiring of Nicæus the reason which had induced alike him
and Iskander to preserve so strictly the disguise of his companion. But a feeling which she did not choose to analyse
struggled successfully with her curiosity: she felt a reluctance to speak of Iskander to the Prince of Athens. In the
meantime Nicæus himself was not apparently very anxious of conversing upon the subject, and after the first rapid
expressions of fear and hope as to the situation of their late comrade, they relapsed into silence, seldom broken by
Nicæus, but to deplore the sufferings of his mistress, lamentations which Iduna answered with a faint smile.

The refreshing scene wherein they had now entered, and the cheering appearance of the Eremite, were subjects of
mutual congratulation; and Nicæus, somewhat advancing, claimed the attention of the holy man, announcing their faith,
imprisonment, escape, and sufferings, and entreating hospitality and refuge. The Eremite pointed with his staff to the
winding path, which ascended the bank of the river to the cavern, and welcomed the pilgrims, in the name of their
blessed Saviour, to his wild abode and simple fare.

The cavern widened when they entered, and comprised several small apartments. It was a work of the early Christians,
who had found a refuge in their days of persecution, and art had completed the beneficent design of nature. The cavern
was fresh, and sweet, and clean. Heaven smiled upon its pious inmate through an aperture in the roof; the floor was
covered with rushes; in one niche rested a brazen cross, and in another a perpetual lamp burnt before a picture, where
Madonna smiled with meek tenderness upon her young divinity.

The Eremite placed upon a block of wood, the surface of which he had himself smoothed, some honey, some dried fish
and a wooden bowl filled from the pure stream that flowed beneath them: a simple meal, but welcome. His guests seated
themselves upon a rushy couch, and while they refreshed themselves, he gently inquired the history of their adventures.
As it was evident that the Eremite, from her apparel, mistook the sex of Iduna, Nicæus thought fit not to undeceive
him, but passed her off as his brother. He described themselves as two Athenian youths, who had been captured while
serving as volunteers under the great Hunniades, and who had effected their escape from Adrianople under circumstances
of great peril and difficulty; and when he had gratified the Eremite’s curiosity respecting their Christian brethren in
Paynim lands, and sympathetically marvelled with him at the advancing fortunes of the Crescent, Nicæus, who perceived
that Iduna stood in great need of rest, mentioned the fatigues of his more fragile brother, and requested permission
for him to retire. Whereupon the Eremite himself, fetching a load of fresh rushes, arranged them in one of the cells,
and invited the fair Iduna to repose. The daughter of Hunniades, first humbling herself before the altar of the Virgin,
and offering her gratitude for all the late mercies vouchsafed unto her, and then bidding a word of peace to her host
and her companion, withdrew to her hard-earned couch, soon was buried in a sleep as sweet and innocent as herself.

But repose fell not upon the eye-lids of Nicæus in spite of all labours. The heart of the Athenian Prince was
distracted by two most powerful of passions — Love and Jealousy — and when the Eremite, pointing out to his guest his
allotted resting-place, himself retired to his regular and simple slumbers, Nicæus quitted the cavern, and standing
upon the bank of the river, gazed in abstraction upon the rushing waters foaming in the moonlight. The Prince of
Athens, with many admirable qualities, was one of those men who are influenced only by their passions, and who, in the
affairs of life, are invariably guided by their imagination instead of their reason. At present all thought and
feeling, all considerations, and all circumstances, merged in the overpowering love he entertained for Iduna, his
determination to obtain her at all cost and peril, and his resolution that she should never again meet Iskander, except
as the wife of Nicæus. Compared with this paramount object, the future seemed to vanish. The emancipation of his
country, the welfare of his friend, even the maintenance of his holy creed, all those great and noble objects for
which, under other circumstances, he would have been prepared to sacrifice his fortune and his life, no longer
interested or influenced him; and while the legions of the Crescent were on the point of pouring into Greece to crush
that patriotic and Christian cause over which Iskander and himself had so often mused, whose interests the
disinterested absence of Iskander, occasioned solely by his devotion to Nicæus, had certainly endangered, and perhaps,
could the events of the last few hours be known, even sacrificed, the Prince of Athens resolved, unless Iduna would
consent to become his, at once to carry off the daughter of Hunniades to some distant country. Nor indeed, even with
his easily excited vanity, was Nicæus sanguine of obtaining his purpose by less violent means. He was already a
rejected suitor, and under circumstances which scarcely had left hope. Nothing but the sole credit of her chivalric
rescue could perhaps have obtained for him the interest in the heart of Iduna which he coveted. For while this exploit
proffered an irresistible claim to her deepest gratitude, it indicated also, on the part of her deliverer, the presence
and possession of all those great qualities, the absence of which in the character and conduct of her suitor, Iduna had
not, at a former period, endeavoured to conceal to be the principal came of his rejection. And now, by the unhappy
course of circumstances, the very deed on which he counted, with sanguine hope, as the sure means of his success,
seemed as it were to have placed him in a more inferior situation than before. The constant society of his mistress had
fanned to all its former force and ardour, the flame which, apart from her, and hopeless, he had endeavoured to
repress; while, on the other hand, he could not conceal from himself, that Iduna must feel that he had played in these
rest proceeding but a secondary part; that all the genius and all the generosity of the exploit rested with Iskander,
who, after having obtained her freedom by so much energy, peril, sagacity and skill, had secured it by a devoted
courage which might shame all the knights of Christendom; perhaps, too, had secured it by his own life.

What if Iskander were no more? It was a great contingency. The eternal servitude of Greece, and the shameful triumph
of the Crescent, were involved, perhaps, in that single event. And could the possession of Iduna compensate for such
disgrace and infamy? Let us not record the wild response of passion.

It was midnight ere the restless Nicæus, more exhausted by his agitating reverie than by his previous exertions,
returned into the cavern, and found refuge in sleep from all his disquietudes.

Chapter 14

The Eremite rose with the Sun; and while he was yet at matins, was joined by Iduna, refreshed and
cheerful after her unusual slumbers. After performing their devotions, her venerable host proposed that they should go
forth and enjoy the morning air. So, descending the precipitous bank of the river, he led the way to a small glen, the
bed of a tributary rivulet, now nearly exhausted. Beautiful clumps of birch-trees and tall thin poplars, rose on each
side among the rocks covered with bright mosses, and parasitical plants of gay and various colours. One side of the
glen was touched with the golden and grateful beams of the rising sun, and the other was in deep shadow.

“Here you can enjoy nature and freedom in security;” said the Eremite, “for your enemies, if they have not already
given up their pursuit, will scarcely search this sweet solitude.”

“It is indeed sweet, holy father,” said Iduna; “but the captive, who has escaped from captivity, can alone feel all
its sweetness.”

“It is true,” said the Eremite; “I also have been a captive.”

“Indeed! holy father. To the Infidels?”

“To the Infidels, gentle pilgrim.”

“Have you been at Adrianople?”

“My oppressors were not the Paynim,” replied the Eremite, “but they were enemies far more dire, my own evil
passions. Time was when my eye sparkled like thine, gentle pilgrim, and my heart was not as pure.”

“God is merciful,” said Iduna, “and without His aid, the strongest are but shadows.”

“Ever think so,” replied the Eremite, “and you will deserve rather His love than His mercy. Thirty long years have I
spent in this solitude, meditating upon the past, and it is a theme yet fertile in instruction. My hours are never
heavy, and memory is to me what action is to other men.”

“You have seen much, holy father?”

“And felt more. Yet you will perhaps think the result of all my experience very slight, for I can only say unto
thee, trust not in thyself.”

“It is a great truth,” remarked Iduna, “and leads to a higher one.”

“Even so,” replied the Eremite. “We are full of wisdom in old age, as in winter this river is full of water, but the
fire of youth, like the summer sun, dries up the stream.”

Iduna did not reply. The Eremite attracted her attention to a patch of cresses on the opposite bank of the stream.
“Every morn I rise only to discover fresh instances of omnipotent benevolence,” he exclaimed. “Yesterday ye tasted my
honey and my fish. To-day I can offer ye a fresh dainty. We will break our fast in this pleasant glen. Rest thou here,
gentle youth, and I will summon thy brother to our meal. I fear me much he does not bear so contented a spirit as
thyself.”

“He is older, and has seen more,” replied Iduna.

The Eremite shook his head, and leaning on his staff, returned to the cavern. Iduna remained, seated on a mossy
rock, listening to the awakening birds, and musing over the fate of Iskander. While she was indulging in this reverie,
her name was called. She looked up with a blush, and beheld Nicæus.

“How fares my gentle comrade?” inquired the Prince of Athens.

“As well as I hope you are, dear Nicæus. We have been indeed fortunate in finding so kind a host.”

“I think I may now congratulate you on your safety,” said the Prince. “This unfrequented pass will lead us in two
days to Epirus, nor do I indeed now fear pursuit.”

“Acts and not words must express in future how much we owe to you,” said Iduna. “My joy would be complete if my
father only knew of our safety, and if our late companion were here to share it.”

“Fear not for my friend,” replied Nicæus. “I have faith in the fortune of Iskander.”

“If any one could succeed under such circumstances, he doubtless is the man,” rejoined Iduna; “but it was indeed an
awful crisis in his fate.”

“Trust me, dear lady, it is wise to banish gloomy thoughts.”

“We can give him only our thoughts,” said Iduna, “and when we remember how much is dependent on his life, can they
be cheerful?”

“Mine must be so, when I am in the presence of Iduna,” replied Nicæus.

The daughter of Hunniades gathered moss from the rock, and threw it into the stream.

“Dear lady,” said the Prince of Athens, seating himself by her side, and stealing her gentle hand. “Pardon me, if an
irrepressible feeling at this moment impels me to recur to a subject, which, I would fain hope, were not so unpleasing
to you, as once unhappily you deemed it. O! Iduna, Iduna, best and dearest, we are once more together; once more I gaze
upon that unrivalled form, and listen to the music of that matchless voice. I sought you, I perhaps violated my pledge,
but I sought you in captivity and sorrow. Pardon me, pity me, Iduna! Oh! Iduna, if possible, love me!”

She turned away her head, she turned away her streaming eyes. “It is impossible not to love my deliverers,” she
replied, in a low and tremulous voice, “even could he not prefer the many other claims to affection which are possessed
by the Prince of Athens. I was not prepared for this renewal of a most painful subject, perhaps not under any
circumstances, but least of all under those in which we now find ourselves.”

“Alas!” exclaimed the prince, “I can no longer control my passion. My life, not my happiness merely, depends upon
Iduna becoming mine. Bear with me, my beloved, bear with me! Were you Nicæus, you too would need forgiveness.”

“I beseech you, cease!” exclaimed Iduna, in a firmer voice; and, withdrawing her hand, she suddenly rose. “This is
neither the time nor place for such conversation. I have not forgotten that, but a few days back, I was a hopeless
captive, and that my life and fame are even now in danger. Great mercies have been vouchsafed to me; but still I
perhaps need the hourly interposition of heavenly aid. Other than such worldly thoughts should fill my mind, and do.
Dear Nicæus,” she continued, in a more soothing tone, “you have nobly commenced a most heroic enterprise: fulfil it in
like spirit.”

He would have replied; but at this moment the staff of the Eremite sounded among the rocks. Baffled, and dark with
rage and passion, the Prince of Athens quitted Iduna, and strolled towards the upper part of the glen, to conceal his
anger and disappointment.

“Eat, gentle youth,” said the Eremite. “Will not thy brother join us? What may be his name?”

“Nicæus, holy father.”

“And thine?”

Iduna blushed and hesitated. At length, in her confusion, she replied, “Iskander.”

“Nicæus,” called out the Eremite, “Iskander and myself await thee!”

Iduna trembled. She was agreeably surprised when the prince returned with a smiling countenance, and joined in the
meal, with many cheerful words.

“Now I propose,” said the Eremite, “that yourself and your brother Iskander should tarry with me some days, if,
indeed, my simple fare have any temptation.”

“I thank thee, holy father,” replied Nicæus, “but our affairs are urgent; nor indeed could I have tarried here at
all, had it not been for my young Iskander here, who, as you may easily believe, is little accustomed to his late
exertions. But, indeed, towards sunset, we must proceed.”

Chapter 15

And so, two hours before sunset, mounting their refreshed horses, Nicæus and Iduna quitted, with
many kind words, the cavern of the Eremite, and took their way along the winding bank of the river. Throughout the
moonlit night they travelled, ascending the last and highest chain of mountains and reaching the summit by dawn. The
cheerful light of morning revealed to them the happy plains of a Christian country. With joyful spirits they descended
into the fertile land, and stopped at a beautiful Greek village, embowered in orchards and groves of olive-trees.

The Prince of Athens instantly inquired for the Primate, or chief personage of the village, and was conducted to his
house; but its master, he was informed, was without, supervising the commencement of the vintage. Leaving Iduna with
the family of the Primate, Nicæus went in search of him. The vineyard was full of groups, busied in the most elegant
and joyous of human occupations, gathering, with infinite bursts of merriment, the harvest of the vine. Some mounted on
ladders, fixed against the festooning branches, plucked the rich bunches, and threw them below, where girls, singing in
chorus, caught them in panniers, or their extended drapery. In the centre of the vineyard, a middle-aged man watched
with a calm, but vigilant eye, the whole proceedings, and occasionally stimulated the indolent, or prompted the
inexperienced.

“Christo,” said the Prince of Athens, when he had approached him. The Primate turned round, but evidently did not
immediately recognise the person who addressed him.

“Not a word, Christo!” replied the prince. “To be brief, I have crossed the mountains from Roumelia, and have only
within this hour recognised the spot whither I have chanced to arrive. I have a companion with me. I would not be
known. You comprehend? Affairs of state. I take it for granted that there are none here who will recognise me, after
three years’ absence, in this dress.”

“You may feel secure, my lord,” replied Christo. “If you puzzled me, who have known you since you were no bigger
than this bunch of grapes, you will quite confound the rest.”

“’Tis well. I shall stay here a day or two, in order to give them an opportunity to prepare for my reception. In the
meantime, it is necessary to send on a courier at once. You must manage all this for me, Christo. How are your
daughters?”

“So, so, please your Highness,” replied Christo. “A man with seven daughters has got trouble for every day in the
week.”

“But not when they are so pretty as yours are!”

“Poh! poh! handsome is that handsome does; and as for Alexina, she wants to be married.”

“Very natural. Let her marry, by all means.”

“But Helena wants to do the same.”

“More natural still; for, if possible, she is prettier. For my part, I could marry them both.”

“Ay, ay! that is all very well; but handsome is that handsome does. I have no objection to Alexina marrying, and
even Helena; but then there is Lais —”

“Hah! hah! hah!” exclaimed the prince. “I see, my dear Christo, that my foster sisters give you a very proper
portion of trouble. However, I must be off to my travelling companion. Come in as soon as you can, my dear fellow, and
will settle everything. A good vintage to you, and only as much mischief as necessary.” So saying, the prince tripped
away.

“Well! who would have thought of seeing him here!” exclaimed the worthy Primate. “The same gay dog as ever! What can
he have been doing at Roumelia? Affairs of state, indeed! I’ll wager my new Epiphany scarf, that, whatever the affairs
are, there is a pretty girl in the case.”

Chapter 16

The fair Iduna, after all her perils and sufferings, was at length sheltered in safety under a kind
and domestic roof. Alexina, and Helena, and Lais, and all the other sisters emulated each other in the attentions which
they lavished upon the two brothers, but especially the youngest. Their kindness, indeed, was only equalled by their
ceaseless curiosity, and had they ever waited for the answers of Iduna to their questions, the daughter of Hunniades
might, perhaps, have been somewhat puzzled to reconcile her responses with probability. Helena answered the questions
of Alexina; Lais anticipated even Helena. All that Iduna had to do was to smile and be silent, and it was universally
agreed that Iskander was singularly shy as well as excessively handsome. In the meantime, when Nicæus met Iduna in the
evening of the second day of their visit, he informed her that he had been so fortunate as to resume an acquaintance
with an old companion in arms in the person of a neighbouring noble, who had invited them to rest at his castle at the
end of their next day’s journey. He told her likewise that he had dispatched a courier to Croia to inquire after
Iskander, who, he expected, in the course of a few days, would bring them intelligence to guide their future movements,
and decide whether they should at once proceed to the capital of Epirus, or advance into Bulgaria, in case Hunniades
was still in the field. On the morrow, therefore, they proceeded on their journey. Nicæus had procured a litter for
Iduna, for which her delicate health was an excuse to Alexina and her sisters, and they were attended by a small body
of well-armed cavalry, for, according to the accounts which Nicæus had received, the country was still disturbed. They
departed at break of day, Nicæus riding by the side of the litter, and occasionally making the most anxious inquiries
after the well-being of his fair charge. An hour after noon they rested at a well, surrounded by olive-trees, until the
extreme heat was somewhat allayed; and then remounting, proceeded in the direction of an undulating ridge of green
hills, that partially intersected the wide plain. Towards sunset the Prince of Athens withdrew the curtains of the
litter, and called the attention of Iduna to a very fair castle, rising on a fertile eminence and sparkling in the
quivering beams of dying light.

“I fear,” said Nicæus, “that my friend Justinian will scarcely have returned, but we are old comrades, and he
desired me to act as his Seneschal. For your sake I am sorry, Iduna, for I feel convinced that he would please
you.”

While she spoke the commander of the escort sounded his bugle, and they commenced the ascent of the steep, a winding
road, cut through a thick wood of ever-green shrubs. The gradual and easy ascent soon brought them to a portal flanked
with towers, which admitted them into the outworks of the fortification. Here they found several soldiers on guard, and
the commander again sounding his bugle, the gates of the castle opened, and the Seneschal, attended by a suite of many
domestics, advanced and welcomed Nicæus and Iduna. The Prince of Athens dismounting, assisted his fair companion from
the litter, and leading her by the band, and preceded by the Seneschal, entered the castle.

They passed through a magnificent hall, hung with choice armour, and ascending a staircase, of Pentelic marble, were
ushered into a suite of lofty chambers, lined with Oriental tapestry, and furnished with many costly couches and
cabinets. While they admired a spectacle so different to anything they had recently beheld or experienced, the
Seneschal, followed by a number of slaves in splendid attire, advanced and offered them rare and choice refreshments,
coffee and confectionery, sherbets and spiced wines. When they had partaken of this elegant cheer, Nicæus intimated to
the Seneschal that the Lady Iduna might probably wish to retire, and instantly a discreet matron, followed by six most
beautiful girls, each bearing a fragrant torch of cinnamon mind roses, advanced and offered to conduct the Lady Iduna
to her apartments.

The matron and her company of maidens conducted the daughter of Hunniades down a long gallery, which led to a suite
of the prettiest chambers in the world. The first was an antechamber, painted like a bower, but filled with the music
of living birds; the second, which was much larger, was entirely covered with Venetian mirrors, and resting on a bright
Persian carpet were many couches of crimson velvet, covered with a variety of sumptuous dresses; the third room was a
bath, made in the semblance of a gigantic shell. Its roof was of transparent alabaster, glowing with shadowy light.

Chapter 17

A flourish of trumpets announced the return of the Lady Iduna and the Prince of Athens,
magnificently attired, came forward with a smile, and led her, with a compliment on her resuming the dress of her sex,
if not of her country, to the banquet. Iduna was not uninfluenced by that excitement which is insensibly produced by a
sudden change of scene and circumstances, and especially by an unexpected transition from hardship, peril, and
suffering, to luxury, security, and enjoyment. Their spirits were elevated and gay: she smiled upon Nicæus with a
cheerful sympathy. They feasted, they listened to sweet music, they talked over their late adventures, and, animated by
their own enjoyment, they became more sanguine as to the fate of Iskander.

“In two or three days we shall know more,” said Nicæus. “In the meantime, rest is absolutely necessary to you. It is
only now that you will begin to be sensible of the exertion you have made. If Iskander be at Croia, he has already
informed your father of your escape; if he have not arrived, I have arranged that a courier shall be dispatched to
Hunniades from that city. Do not be anxious. Try to be happy. I am myself sanguine that you will find all well. Come,
pledge me your father’s health, fair lady, in this goblet of Tenedos!”

“How know I that at this moment he may not be at the point of death,” replied Iduna. “When I am absent from those I
love, I dream only of their unhappiness.”

“At this moment also,” rejoined Nicæus, “he dreams perhaps of your imprisonment among barbarians. Yet how mistaken!
Let that consideration support you. Come! here is to the Eremite.”

“As willing, if not as sumptuous, a host as our present one,” said Iduna; “and when, by-the-bye, do you think that
your friend, the Lord Justinian, will arrive?”

“Oh! never mind him,” said Nicæus. “He would have arrived tomorrow, but the great news which I gave him has probably
changed his plans. I told him of the approaching invasion, and he has perhaps found it necessary to visit the
neighbouring chieftains, or even to go on to Croia.”

“Well-a-day!” exclaimed Iduna, “I would we were in my father’s camp!”

“We shall soon be there, dear lady,” replied the Prince. “Come, worthy Seneschal,” he added, turning to that
functionary, “drink to this noble lady’s happy meeting with her friends.”

Chapter 18

Three or four days passed away at the castle of Justinian, in which Nicæus used his utmost exertions
to divert the anxiety of Iduna. One day was spent in examining the castle, on another he amused her with a hawking
party, on a third he carried her to the neighbouring ruins of a temple, and read his favourite Æschylus to her amid its
lone and elegant columns. It was impossible for any one to be more amiable and entertaining, and Iduna could not resist
recognising his many virtues and accomplishments. The courier had not yet returned from Croia, which Nicæus accounted
for by many satisfactory reasons. The suspense, however, at length became so painful to Iduna, that she proposed to the
Prince of Athens that they should, without further delay, proceed to that city. As usual, Nicæus was not wanting in
many plausible arguments in favour of their remaining at the castle, but Iduna was resolute.

“Indeed, dear Nicæus,” she said, “my anxiety to see my father, or hear from him, is so great, that there is scarcely
any danger which I would not encounter to gratify my wish. I feel that I have already taxed your endurance too much.
But we are no longer in a hostile land, and guards and guides are to be engaged. Let me then depart alone!”

“Iduna!” exclaimed Nicæus, reproachfully. “Alas! Iduna, you are cruel, but I did not expect this!”

“Dear Nicæus!” she answered, “you always misinterpret me! It would infinitely delight me to be restored to Hunniades
by yourself, but these are no common times, and you are no common person. You forget that there is one that has greater
claims upon you even than a forlorn maiden, your country. And whether Iskander be at Croia or not, Greece requires the
presence and exertions of the Prince of Athens.”

“I have no country,” replied Nicæus, mournfully, “and no object for which to exert myself.”

“Nicæus! Is this the poetic patriot who was yesterday envying Themistocles?”

“Alas! Iduna, yesterday you were my muse. I do not wonder you are wearied of this castle!” continued the prince in a
melancholy tone. “This spot contains nothing to interest you; but for me, it holds all that is dear, and, O! gentle
maiden, one smile from you, one smile of inspiration, and I would not envy Themistocles, and might perhaps rival
him.”

They were walking together in the hall of the castle; Iduna stepped aside and affected to examine a curious buckler,
Nicæus followed her, and placing his arm gently in hers, led her away.

“Dearest Iduna,” he said, “pardon me, but men struggle for their fate. Mine is in your power. It is a contest
between misery and happiness, glory and perhaps infamy. Do not then wonder that I will not yield my chance of the
brighter fortune without an effort. Once more I appeal to your pity, if not to your love. Were Iduna mine, were she to
hold out but the possibility of her being mine, there is no career, solemnly I avow what solemnly I feel, there is no
career of which I could not be capable, and no condition to which I would not willingly subscribe. But this certainty,
or this contingency, I must have: I cannot exist without the alternative. And now upon my knees, I implore her to grant
it to me!”

“Nicæus,” said Iduna, “this continued recurrence to a forbidden subject is most ungenerous.”

“Alas! Iduna, my life depends upon a word, which you will not speak, and you talk of generosity. No! Iduna, it is
not I that I am ungenerous.”

“Let me say then unreasonable, Prince Nicæus.”

“Say what you like, Iduna, provided you say that you are mine.”

“Pardon me, sir, I am free.”

“Free! You have ever underrated me, Iduna. To whom do you owe this boasted freedom?”

“This is not the first time,” remarked Iduna, “that you have reminded me of an obligation, the memory of which is
indelibly impressed upon my heart, and for which even the present conversation cannot make me feel less grateful. I can
never forget that I owe all that is dear to yourself and your companion.”

“My companion!” replied the Prince of Athens, pale and passionate. “My companion! Am I ever to be reminded of my
companion?”

“Nicæus!” said Iduna; “if you forget what is due to me, at least endeavour to remember what is due to yourself?”

“Beautiful being!” said the prince, advancing and passionately seizing her hand; “pardon me! pardon me! I am not
master of my reason; I am nothing, I am nothing while Iduna hesitates!”

“She does not hesitate, Nicæus. I desire, I require, that this conversation shall cease; shall never, never be
renewed.”

“And I tell thee, haughty woman,” said the Prince of Athens, grinding his teeth, and speaking with violent action,
“that I will no longer be despised with impunity. Iduna is mine, or is no one else’s.”

“Is it possible?” exclaimed the daughter of Hunniades. “Is it, indeed, come to this? But why am I surprised! I have
long known Nicæus. I quit this castle instantly.”

“You are a prisoner,” replied the prince very calmly, and leaning with folded arms against the wall.

“A prisoner!” exclaimed Iduna, a little alarmed. “A prisoner! I defy you, sir. You are only a guest like myself. I
will appeal to the Seneschal in the absence of his lord. He will never permit the honour of his master’s flag to be
violated by the irrational caprice of a passionate boy.”

“What lord?” inquired Nicæus.

“Your friend, the Lord Justinian,” answered Iduna. “He could little anticipate such an abuse of his
hospitality.”

“My friend, the Lord Justinian!” replied Nicæus, with a malignant smile. “I am surprised that a personage of the
Lady Iduna’s deep discrimination should so easily be deceived by ‘a passionate boy!’ Is it possible that you could have
supposed for a moment that there was any other lord of this castle, save your devoted slave?”

“What!” exclaimed Iduna, really frightened.

“I have, indeed, the honour of finding the Lady Iduna my guest,” continued Nicæus, in a tone of bitter raillery.
“This castle of Kallista, the fairest in all Epirus, I inherit from my mother. Of late I have seldom visited it; but,
indeed, it will become a favourite residence of mine, if it be, as I anticipate, the scene of my nuptial ceremony.”

Iduna looked around her with astonishment, then threw herself upon a couch, and burst into tears. The Prince of
Athens walked up and down the hall with an air of determined coolness.

“Perfidious!” exclaimed Iduna between her sobs.

“Lady Iduna,” said the prince; and he seated himself by her side. “I will not attempt to palliate a deception which
your charms could alone inspire and can alone justify. Hear me, Lady Iduna, hear me with calmness. I love you; I love
you with a passion which has been as constant as it is strong. My birth, my rank, my fortunes, do not disqualify me for
an union with the daughter of the great Hunniades. If my personal claims may sink in comparison with her surpassing
excellence, I am yet to learn that any other prince in Christendom can urge a more effective plea. I am young; the
ladies of the court have called me handsome; by your great father’s side I have broken some lances in your honour; and
even Iduna once confessed she thought me clever. Come, come, be merciful! Let my beautiful Athens receive a fitting
mistress! A holy father is in readiness dear maiden. Come now, one smile! In a few days we shall reach your father’s
camp, and then we will kneel, as I do now, and beg a blessing on our happy union.” As he spoke, he dropped upon his
knee, and stealing her hand, looked into her face. It was sorrowful and gloomy.

“It is in vain, Nicæus,” said Iduna, “to appeal to your generosity; it is useless to talk of the past; it is idle to
reproach you for the present. I am a woman, alone and persecuted, where I could least anticipate persecution. Nicæus, I
never can be yours; and now I deliver myself to the mercy of Almighty God.”

“’Tis well,” said Nicæus. “From the tower of the castle you may behold the waves of the Ionian Sea. You will remain
here a close prisoner, until one of my galleys arrive from Piræus to bear us to Italy. Mine you must be, Iduna. It
remains for you to decide under what circumstances. Continue in your obstinacy, and you may bid farewell for ever to
your country and to your father. Be reasonable, and a destiny awaits you, which offers everything that has hitherto
been considered the source or cause of happiness.” Thus speaking, the prince retired, leaving the Lady Iduna to her own
unhappy thoughts.

Chapter 19

The Lady Iduna was at first inclined to view the conduct of the Prince of Athens as one of those
passionate and passing ebullitions in which her long acquaintance with him had taught her he was accustomed to indulge.
But when on retiring soon after to her apartments, she was informed by her attendant matron that she must in future
consider herself a prisoner, and not venture again to quit them without permission, she began to tremble at the
possible violence of an ill-regulated mind. She endeavoured to interest her attendant in her behalf; but the matron was
too well schooled to evince any feeling or express any opinion on the subject; and indeed, at length, fairly informed
Iduna that she was commanded to confine her conversation to the duties of her office.

The Lady Iduna was very unhappy. She thought of her father, she thought of Iskander. The past seemed a dream; she
was often tempted to believe that she was still, and had ever been, a prisoner in the Serail of Adrianople; and that
all the late wonderful incidents of her life were but the shifting scenes of some wild slumber. And then some slight
incident, the sound of a bell or the sign of some holy emblem, assured her she was in a Christian land, and convinced
her of the strange truth that she was indeed in captivity, and a prisoner, above all others, to the fond companion of
her youth. Her indignation at the conduct of Nicæus roused her courage; she resolved to make an effort to escape. Her
rooms were only lighted from above; she determined to steal forth at night into the gallery; the door was secured. She
hastened back to her chamber in fear and sorrow, and wept.

Twice in the course of the day the stern and silent matron visited Iduna with her food; and as she retired, secured
the door. This was the only individual that the imprisoned lady ever beheld. And thus heavily rolled on upwards of a
week. On the eve of the ninth day, Iduna was surprised by the matron presenting her a letter as she quitted the chamber
for the night. Iduna seized it with a feeling of curiosity not unmixed with pleasure. It was the only incident that had
occurred during her captivity. She recognised the hand-writing of Nicæus, and threw it down with; vexation at her
silliness in supposing, for a moment, that the matron could have been the emissary of any other person.

Yet the letter must be read, and at length she opened it. It informed her that a ship had arrived from Athens at the
coast, and that tomorrow she must depart for Italy. It told her also, that the Turks, under Mahomed, had invaded
Albania; and that the Hungarians, under the command of her father, had come to support the Cross. It said nothing of
Iskander. But it reminded her that little more than the same time that would carry her to the coast to embark for a
foreign land, would, were she wise, alike enable Nicæus to place her in her father’s arms, and allow him to join in the
great struggle for his country and his creed. The letter was written with firmness, but tenderly. It left, however, on
the mind of Iduna an impression of the desperate resolution of the writer.

Now it so happened, that as this unhappy lady jumped from her couch, and paced the room in the perturbation of her
mind, the wind of her drapery extinguished her lamp. As her attendant, or visitor, had paid her last visit for the day,
there seemed little chance of its being again illumined. The miserable are always more unhappy in the dark. Light is
the greatest of comforters. And so this little misfortune seemed to the forlorn Iduna almost overwhelming. And as she
attempted to look around, and wrung her hands in very woe, her attention was attracted by a brilliant streak of light
upon the wall, which greatly surprised her. She groped her way in its direction, and slowly stretching forth her hand,
observed that it made its way through a chink in the frame of one of the great mirrors which were inlaid in the wall.
And as she pressed the frame, she felt to her surprise that it sprang forward. Had she not been very cautious the
advancing mirror would have struck her with great force, but she had presence of mind to withdraw her hand very
gradually, repressing the swiftness of the spring. The aperture occasioned by the opening of the mirror consisted of a
recess, formed by a closed-up window. An old wooden shutter, or blind, in so ruinous a state, that the light freely
made its way, was the only barrier against the elements. Iduna, seizing the handle which remained, at once drew it open
with little difficulty.

The captive gazed with gladdened feelings upon the free and beautiful scene. Beneath her rose the rich and aromatic
shrubs tinged with the soft and silver light of eve: before her extended wide and fertile champaign, skirted by the
dark and undulating mountains: in the clear sky, glittering and sharp, sparkled the first crescent of the new moon, an
auspicious omen to the Moslemin invaders.

Iduna gazed with, joy upon the landscape, and then hastily descending from the recess, she placed her hands to her
eyes, so long unaccustomed to the light. Perhaps, too, she indulged in momentary meditation. For suddenly seizing a
number of shawls; which were lying on one of the couches, she knotted them together, and then striving with all her
force, she placed the heaviest, coach on one end of the costly cord, and then throwing the other out of the window, and
entrusting herself to the merciful care of the holy Virgin, the brave daughter of Hunniades successfully dropped down
into the garden below.

She stopped to breathe, and to revel in her emancipated existence. It was a bold enterprise gallantly achieved. But
the danger had now only commenced. She found that she had alighted at the back of the castle. She stole along upon
tip-toe, timid as a fawn. She remembered a small wicket-gate that led into the open country. She arrived at the gate.
It was of course guarded. The single sentinel was kneeling before an image of St. George, beside him was an empty
drinking-cup and an exhausted wineskin.

“Holy Saint!” exclaimed the pious sentinel, “preserve us from all Turkish infidels!” Iduna stole behind him. “Shall
men who drink no wine conquer true Christians!” continued the sentinel. Iduna placed her hand upon the lock. “We thank
thee for our good vintage,” said the sentinel. Iduna opened the gate with the noiseless touch which a feminine finger
can alone command. “And for the rise of the Lord Iskander!” added the sentinel. Iduna escaped!

Now she indeed was free. Swiftly she ran over the wide plain. She hoped to reach some town or village before her
escape could be discovered, and she hurried on for three hours without resting. She came to a beautiful grove of
olive-trees that spread in extensive ramifications about the plain. And through this beautiful grove of olive-trees her
path seemed to lead. So she entered and advanced. And when she had journeyed for about a mile, she came to an open and
very verdant piece of ground, which was, as it were, the heart of the grove. In its centre rose a fair and antique
structure of white marble, shrouding from the noon-day sun the perennial flow of a very famous fountain. It was near
midnight. Iduna was wearied, and she sat down upon the steps of the fountain for rest. And while she was musing over
all the strange adventures of her life, she heard a rustling in the wood, and being alarmed, she rose and hid herself
behind a tree.

And while she stood there, with palpitating heart, the figure of a man advanced to the fountain from an opposite
direction of the grove. He went up the steps, and looked down upon the spring as if he were about to drink, but instead
of doing that, he drew his scimitar, and plunged it into the water, and called out with a loud voice the name of
“Iskander!” three times. Whereupon Iduna, actuated by an irresistible impulse, came forward from her hiding-place, but
instantly gave a loud shriek when she beheld the Prince Mahomed!

“Oh! night of glory!” exclaimed the prince, advancing. “Do I indeed behold the fair Iduna! This is truly magic!”

“Away! away!” exclaimed the distracted Iduna, as she endeavoured to fly from him.

“He has kept his word, that cunning leech, better than I expected,” said Mahomed, seizing her.

“As well as you deserve, ravisher!” exclaimed a majestic voice. A tall figure rushed forward from the wood, and
dashed back the Turk.

“We have met before, prince. Let us so act now that we may meet for the last time.”

“Infamous, infernal traitor,” exclaimed Mahomed, “dost thou, indeed, imagine that I will sully my imperial blade
with the blood of my run-away slave! No I came here to secure thy punishment, but I cannot condescend to become thy
punisher. Advance, guards, and seize him! Seize them both!”

Iduna flew to Iskander, who caught her in one arm, while he waved his scimitar with the other. The guards of Mahomed
poured forth from the side of the grove whence the prince had issued.

“And dost thou indeed think, Mahomed,” said Iskander, “that I have been educated in the Seraglio to be duped by
Moslemin craft. I offer thee single combat if thou desirest it, but combat as we may, the struggle shall be equal.” He
whistled, and instantly a body of Hungarians, headed by Hunniades himself, advanced from the side of the grove whence
Iskander had issued.

“Come on, then,” said Mahomed; “each to his man.” Their swords clashed, but the principal attendants of the son of
Amurath deeming the affair under the present circumstances assumed the character of a mere rash adventure, bore away
the Turkish prince.

“To-morrow then, this fray shall be decided on the plains of Kallista,” said Mahomed.

“Epirus is prepared,” replied Iskander.

The Turks withdrew. Iskander bore the senseless form of Iduna to her father. Hunniades embraced his long-lost child.
They sprinkled her face with water from the fountain. She revived.

“Where is Nicæus?” inquired Iskander; “and how came you again, dear lady, in the power of Mahomed?”

“Alas! noble sir, my twice deliverer,” answered Iduna, “I have, indeed, again been doomed to captivity, but my
persecutor, I blush to say, was this time a Christian prince.”

Thereupon the Lady Iduna recounted to her father and Iskander, sitting between them on the margin of the fount, all
that had occurred to her, since herself and Nicæus parted with Iskander; nor did she omit to relate to Hunniades all
the devotion of Iskander, respecting which, like a truly brave man, he had himself been silent. The great Hunniades
scarcely knew which rather to do, to lavish his affection on his beloved child, or his gratitude upon Iskander. Thus
they went on conversing for some time, Iskander placing his own cloak around Iduna, and almost unconsciously winding
his arm around her unresisting form.

Just as they were preparing to return to the Christian camp, a great noise was heard in the grove, and presently, in
the direction whence Iduna had arrived, there came a band of men bearing torches and examining the grove in all
directions in great agitation. Iskander and Hunniades stood upon their guard, but soon perceived they were Greeks.
Their leader, seeing a group near the fountain, advanced to make inquiries respecting the object of his search, but
when he indeed recognised the persons who formed the group, the torch fell from his grasp, and he turned away his head
and hid his face in his hands.

Iduna clung to her father; Iskander stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, but Hunniades, stern and terrible,
disembarrassing himself of the grasp of his daughter, advanced and laid his hand upon the stranger.

“Young man,” said the noble father, “were it contrition instead of shame that inspired this attitude, it might be
better. I have often warned you of the fatal consequences of a reckless indulgence of the passions. More than once I
have predicted to you, that however great might be your confidence in your ingenuity and your resources, the hour would
arrive when such a career would place you in a position as despicable as it was shameful. That hour has arrived, and
that position is now filled by the Prince of Athens. You stand before the three individuals in this world whom you have
most injured, and whom you were most bound to love and to protect. Here is a friend, who hazarded his prosperity and
his existence for your life and your happiness. And you have made him a mere pander to your lusts, and then deserted
him in his greatest necessities. This maiden was the companion of your youth, and entitled to your kindest offices. You
have treated her infinitely worse than her Turkish captor. And for myself, sir, your father was my dearest friend. I
endeavoured to repay his friendship by supplying his place to his orphan child. How I discharged my duty, it becomes
not me to say: how you have discharged yours, this lady here, my daughter, your late prisoner, sir, can best
prove.”

“Oh! spare me, spare me, sir,” said the Prince of Athens, turning and falling upon his knee. “I am most wretched.
Every word cuts to my very core. Just Providence has baffled all my arts, and I am grateful. Whether this lady can,
indeed, forgive me, I hardly dare to think, or even hope. And yet forgiveness is a heavenly boon. Perhaps the memory of
old days may melt her. As for yourself, sir — but I’ll not speak, I cannot. Noble Iskander, if I mistake not, you may
whisper words in that fair ear, less grating than my own. May you be happy! I will not profane your prospects with my
vows. And yet I’ll say farewell!”

The Prince of Athens turned away with an air of complete wretchedness, and slowly withdrew. Iskander followed
him.

“Nicæus,” said Iskander; but the prince entered the grove, and did not turn round.

“Dear Nicæus,” said Iskander. The prince hesitated.

“Let us not part thus,” said Iskander. “Iduna is most unhappy. She bade me tell you she had forgotten all.”

“The best and truest, Iskander. I will to the camp, and meet you in your tent ere morning break. At present, I would
be alone.”

“Dear Nicæus, one word. You have said upon one point, what I could well wish unsaid, and dared to prophesy what may
never happen. I am not made for such supreme felicity. Epirus is my mistress, my Nicæus. As there is a living God, my
friend, most solemnly I vow, I have had no thoughts in this affair, but for your honour.”

“I know it, my dear friend, I know it,” replied Nicæus. “I keenly feel your admirable worth. Say no more, say no
more! She is a fit wife for a hero, and you are one!”

Chapter 20

After the battle of the bridge, Iskander had hurried to Croia without delay. In his progress, he had
made many fruitless inquiries after Iduna and Nicæus, but he consoled himself for the unsatisfactory answers he
received by the opinion that they had taken a different course, and the conviction that all must now be safe. The
messenger from Croia that informed Hunniades of the escape of his daughter, also solicited his aid in favour of Epirus
against the impending invasion of the Turks, and stimulated by personal gratitude as well as by public duty, Hunniades
answered the solicitation in person at the head of twenty thousand lances.

Hunniades and Iskander had mutually flattered themselves, when apart, that each would be able to quell the anxiety
of the other on the subject of Iduna. The leader of Epirus flattered himself that his late companions had proceeded at
once to Transylvania, and the Vaivode himself had indulged in the delightful hope that the first person he should
embrace at Croia would be his long-lost child. When, therefore, they met, and were mutually incapable of imparting any
information on the subject to each other, they were filled with astonishment and disquietude. Events, however, gave
them little opportunity to indulge in anxiety or grief. On the day that Hunniades and his lances arrived at Croia, the
invading army of the Turks under the Prince Mahomed crossed the mountains, and soon after pitched their camp on the
fertile plain of Kallista.

As Iskander, by the aid of Hunniades and the neighbouring princes, and the patriotic exertions of his countrymen,
was at this moment at the head of a force which the Turkish prince could not have anticipated, he resolved to march at
once to meet the Ottomans, and decide the fate of Greece by a pitched battle.

The night before the arrival of Iduna at the famous fountain, the Christian army had taken up its position within a
few miles of the Turks. The turbaned warriors wished to delay the engagement until the new moon, the eve of which was
at hand. And it happened on that said eve that Iskander calling to mind his contract with the Turkish prince made in
the gardens of the Seraglio at Adrianople, and believing from the superstitious character of Mahomed that he would not
fail to be at the appointed spot, resolved, as we have seen, to repair to the fountain of Kallista.

And now from that fountain the hero retired, bearing with him a prize scarcely less precious than the freedom of his
country, for which he was to combat on the morrow’s morn.

Ere the dawn had broken, the Christian power was in motion. Iskander commanded the centre, Hunniades the right wing.
The left was entrusted at his urgent request to the Prince of Athens. A mist that hung about the plain allowed Nicæus
to charge the right wing of the Turks almost unperceived. He charged with irresistible fury, and soon disordered the
ranks of the Moslemin. Mahomed with the reserve hastened to their aid. A mighty multitude of Janissaries, shouting the
name of Allah and his Prophet, penetrated the Christian centre. Hunniades endeavoured to attack them on their flank,
but was himself charged by the Turkish cavalry. The battle was now general, and raged with terrible fury. Iskander had
secreted in his centre, a new and powerful battery of cannon, presented to him by the Pope, and which had just arrived
from Venice. This battery played upon the Janissaries with great destruction. He himself mowed them down with his
irresistible scimitar. Infinite was the slaughter! awful the uproar! But of all the Christian knights this day, no one
performed such mighty feats of arms as the Prince of Athens. With a reckless desperation he dashed about the field, and
everything seemed to yield to his inspired impulse. His example animated his men with such a degree of enthusiasm, that
the division to which he was opposed, although encouraged by the presence of Mahomed himself, could no longer withstand
the desperate courage of the Christians, and fled in all directions. Then, rushing to the aid of Iskander, Nicæus, at
the head of a body of picked men, dashed upon the rear of the Janissaries, and nearly surrounded them. Hunniades
instantly made a fresh charge upon the left wing of the Turks. A panic fell upon the Moslemin, who were little prepared
for such a demonstration of strength on the part of their adversaries. In a few minutes, their order seemed generally
broken, and their leaders in vain endeavoured to rally them. Waving his bloody scimitar, and bounding on his black
charger, Iskander called upon his men to secure the triumph of the Cross and the freedom of Epirus. Pursuit was now
general.

Chapter 21

The Turks were massacred by thousands. Mahomed, when he found that all was lost, fled to the
mountains, with a train of guards and eunuchs, and left the care of his dispersed host to his Pachas. The hills were
covered with the fugitives and their pursuers. Some fled also to the seashore, where the Turkish fleet was at anchor.
The plain was strewn with corpses and arms, and tents and standards. The sun was now high in the heavens. The mist had
cleared away; but occasional clouds of smoke still sailed about.

A solitary Christian knight entered a winding pass in the green hills, apart from the scene of strife. The slow and
trembling step of his wearied steed would have ill qualified him to join in the triumphant pursuit, even had he himself
been physically enabled; but the Christian knight was covered with gore, unhappily not alone that of his enemies. He
was, indeed, streaming, with desperate wounds, and scarcely could his fainting form retain its tottering seat.

The winding pass, which for some singular reason he now pursued in solitude, instead of returning to the busy camp
for aid and assistance, conducted the knight to a small green valley, covered with sweet herbs, and entirely surrounded
by hanging woods. In the centre rose the ruins of a Doric fane: three or four columns, grey and majestic. All was still
and silent, save that in the clear blue sky an eagle flew, high in the air, but whirling round the temple.

The knight reached the ruins of the Doric fane, and with difficulty dismounting from his charger, fell upon the soft
and flowery turf, and for some moments was motionless. His horse stole a few yards away, and though scarcely less
injured than its rider, instantly commenced cropping the inviting pasture.

At length the Christian knight slowly raised his head, and leaning on his arm, sighed deeply. His face was very
pale; but as he looked up, and perceived the eagle in the heaven, a smile played upon his pallid cheek, and his
beautiful eye gleamed with a sudden flash of light.

“Glorious bird!” murmured the Christian warrior, “once I deemed that my career might resemble thine! ’Tis over now
and Greece, for which I would have done so much, will soon forget my immemorial name. I have stolen here to die in
silence and in beauty. This blue air, and these green woods, and these lone columns, which oft to me have been a
consolation, breathing of the poetic past, and of the days wherein I fain had lived, I have escaped from the fell field
of carnage to die among them. Farewell my country! Farewell to one more beautiful than Greece, farewell, Iduna!”

These were the last words of Nicæus, Prince of Athens.

Chapter 22

While the unhappy lover of the daughter of Hunniades breathed his last words to the solitary
elements, his more fortunate friend received, in the centre of his scene of triumph, the glorious congratulations of
his emancipated country. The discomfiture of the Turks was complete, and this overthrow, coupled with their recent
defeat in Bulgaria, secured Christendom from their assaults during the remainder of the reign of Amurath the Second.
Surrounded by his princely allies, and the chieftains of Epirus, the victorious standards of Christendom, and the
triumphant trophies of the Moslemin, Iskander received from the great Hunniades the hand of his beautiful daughter.
“Thanks to these brave warriors,” said the hero, “I can now offer to your daughter a safe, an honourable, and a
Christian home.”

“It is to thee, great sir, that Epirus owes its security,” said an ancient chieftain, addressing Iskander, “its
national existence, and its holy religion. All that we have to do now is to preserve them; nor indeed do I see that we
can more effectually obtain these great objects than by entreating thee to mount the redeemed throne of thy ancestors.
Therefore I say GOD SAVE ISKANDER, KING OF EPIRUS!”

And all the people shouted and said, “GOD SAVE THE KING! GOD SAVE ISKANDER, KING OF EPIRUS!”

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